Deadly Lies (Deadly #3)(98)

She guided his cock, positioning it right at the entrance to her body. So wet and warm. Nothing between them, nothing—

Condom. “Samantha—”

“I’m safe,” she managed, tossing back her hair.

So was he. And if she wanted skin to skin…

She eased down and took him inside her body.

And it was heaven. Hell. So good he lost his breath. So tight that he nearly came at the first hot glide of her body. He forgot the pain and only knew her.

Max worked the rhythm with her, lifting his hips up to meet her, holding tight, and keeping his eyes on her.

Samantha. The woman he’d nearly died for. The woman he would have killed for.

Her moans filled the air. His fingers dug too deeply into her hips, but he couldn’t stop. Need her too much.

Her nails bit into his shoulders. Her sex rippled around him, and then she was coming, whispering his name and arching above him.

Beautiful.

Her climax shivered around his cock, and he exploded into her as a wave of hot pleasure pulsed through his body. Max wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

Because he wasn’t letting her go. No matter what nightmares might come—for him, for her—he wasn’t letting her go.

When the passion eased, she slid down to his side. Her hand lay over his chest, right over his heart. And he didn’t speak because he knew what tomorrow would bring: the face-off with his stepbrother. The last round of questions. The future.

After a while her breathing eased, and he knew she slept beside him. But he didn’t sleep because he didn’t want to see her die again in his nightmares. So he held her in the darkness and wondered how a woman who fought killers could love one.


The next morning, Max walked with Samantha down the long, winding hallway. The clank of metal bars sounded behind them. He knew that sound well. For years, it had haunted his dreams. The sound of freedom being ripped away.

But this time, it wasn’t his freedom. It was his stepbrother’s.

Samantha’s delicate fingers tightened around his. He was limping a bit, thanks to the bullet wound Quinlan had put in his thigh.

Then Monica Davenport was there, stepping forward with Ramirez by her side. They motioned toward the small conference room they’d been given. An empty table waited.

“You understand what’s happening here today?” Monica murmured.

He rolled his shoulder and felt the pull of stitches. Last night, he hadn’t even given a thought to his injuries. Sex and Samantha had made him forget. “Yeah, Quinlan’s about to lie his ass off to try and cut down his prison term.” Or to make me look guilty. Samantha had already told him about Quinlan’s accusations.

Monica’s gaze was assessing. “I’ve asked the DA to wait outside a bit. I want you to have the chance to talk to your brother first.”

His brows climbed. “What good will that do?”

“I think you can make him confess. To everything.” She offered a small, brittle smile. Ramirez watched them with guarded eyes.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Max asked. Samantha’s hand held tight to his.

“No, I’m not.”

“The guy wants me dead. He’s not gonna want to confess!”

“Your brother always wanted his father’s attention, didn’t he?” Monica mused. “The only son, at least for a long time, the one who never quite measured up.”

Piss-poor excuse for a son… Frank’s voice echoed in his mind. Max swallowed.

“The killings weren’t about money. We looked at it all wrong. The money—that’s just the surface,” Monica said, with a wave of her hand. “He took the golden boys—the rich boys with doting dads—and he made the fathers prove how much they loved their sons.”

Max shook his head. “That’s f*cked up.”

“That’s Quinlan.” Finally Ramirez spoke. “He could have taken the money and run after the first two snatches, but instead he got to where the money couldn’t compete with the pleasure he took from slicing open his victims.”

“And himself.” Monica reached for a file on the table. “I’ve got doctors’ records—”

“Aren’t those supposed to be confidential?” Max demanded. Beside him, Samantha leaned forward and peered at the files.

“About as confidential as your manslaughter conviction,” Ramirez murmured, locking his gaze on Max.

“Screw off.” Max wasn’t in the mood for any agent bullshit.

“What do the records say?” Samantha wanted to know.

“That at age fourteen, Quinlan Malone was admitted to St. John’s Hospital because he had lacerations on his upper chest.” Monica raised a black brow. “He said he fell onto a fence, but the attending physician suspected otherwise and referred Frank Malone to a psychiatrist.” Monica closed the folder and her gaze returned to Max. “Seems your stepbrother liked to injure himself.”

Sliced off his own finger.

“Self-injuries like that can be triggered by depression, anxiety, an emotional stressor, or—”

“Frank met my mom when Quinlan was fourteen,” Max gritted out from between clenched teeth.

Monica nodded. “Do you know why Nathan Donnelley was employed by your father?”