The muffled sounds from inside the room—Marina’s teasing, Sarah’s startled gasp—sent a jolt through me, my cock hardening despite the gravity of the situation. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay rooted outside the door.
"Aaaah—!" Sarah’s sharp intake of breath cut through the air.
Marina’s chuckle followed, unrepentant. "I’m sorry... I just couldn’t help myself."
Then—silence. No more laughter, no more protests. Just the rustle of fabric, the quiet murmur of voices too low to catch. A minute later, Marina stepped out, her expression composed but her eyes still alight with mischief. She didn’t say a word, just gave me a knowing look before nodding toward the room. "She’s decent."
I adjusted my jacket, hiding the evidence of my arousal, and stepped inside. Sarah sat upright on the bed, leaning against the backrest, her face carefully blank. But her eyes—red-rimmed, glassy—betrayed her. She looked like she’d been holding back tears for hours.
"Give me your phone," she said, her voice rough with exhaustion. "I need to call Peter."
My chest tightened. I opened my mouth, searching for the right words, but before I could speak, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.
A head appeared in the doorway, eyes locking onto Sarah. The man didn’t knock—just pushed the door open and strode in, followed by three other officers.
And then I saw him.
Officer Diaz, his face twisted in barely suppressed guilt. My muscles coiled, but I forced myself to stay still.
Sarah’s gaze snapped to the oldest man among them—a grizzled veteran with deep-set eyes and a weary slump to his shoulders. "Sir," she said, her voice tight, already sensing something was wrong.
Diaz’s voice was a low, venomous growl. "What the hell is he doing here?"
Sarah didn’t even look at him. "Diaz. Jack’s the reason I’m alive." Her voice was steel, but her fingers trembled where they gripped the bedsheet.
Diaz’s jaw clenched, his gaze flickering to the floor. He looked guilty. Like a man who knew he was drowning in his own lies.
The old man ignored Diaz entirely. He stepped forward, his expression grave, his voice heavy with dread. "Sarah..." He hesitated, swallowing hard. "There’s no easy way to say this."
Sarah’s breath hitched. "Say what?"
The old man’s voice cracked. "It’s about Peter."
Sarah went still. "Peter?" Her voice was suddenly small, fragile.
The old man’s eyes darkened. "He was in an accident last night. Just like yours."
Sarah’s face paled. "No. No, you’re—you’re lying."
The old man’s voice was a funeral bell. "Sarah... he didn’t make it."
For a second, there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Just the suffocating weight of those words hanging in the air.
Then—
Sarah let out a sound that wasn’t human. A scream, raw and shattered, tearing from her throat like it was ripping her apart. "WHAT?!" Her voice broke, dissolved into a sob. "NO! NO, YOU’RE LYING! HE CAN’T—HE CAN’T—!"
The old man flinched but didn’t back down. "I’m so sorry, Sarah. We think it was the same truck. Same MO. Whoever did this... they were sending a message."
The old man’s face twisted. "We didn’t know until it was too late. We’re looking into it now—"
"LOOKING INTO IT?!" Sarah’s voice was a scream, her body shaking violently. "HE’S DEAD! MY BROTHER IS DEAD!" She clawed at the bedsheets, her knuckles white. "You let this happen!"
The old man’s voice was thick with grief. "Sarah, we’re doing everything we can—"
"GET OUT!" Her voice was a broken howl, her body curling in on itself. "GET OUT!"
The old man didn’t argue. He turned to the others, nodding solemnly. "Give her space." One by one, they filed out—even Diaz, who hesitated in the doorway, his face twisted with something like shame. Sarah’s glare burned into him. "You too, Diaz. GET OUT."
The door clicked shut.
And then Sarah collapsed.
Her sobs tore through the room, raw and animalistic, her body shaking like she was being torn apart from the inside. "Peter—" she gasped, her voice breaking. "No, no, no—"
"He can’t be—he can’t—!"
I moved without thinking, dropping to my knees beside her bed. "Sarah—"
"DON’T TOUCH ME!" She lashed out, her voice a shattered whisper. "Don’t you dare!"
I froze, my hands hovering in the air between us. "I’m here," I said, my voice low, steady. "I’m not leaving you."
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Her sobs swallowed her whole, her body convulsing with a grief so violent it seemed to rip her apart from the inside. The sound was raw, animalistic—a keening wail that filled the room, bouncing off the sterile white walls like a curse. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, her plastered arms twitching uselessly at her sides, as if she could dig her way out of this hell if she just tried hard enough.
I couldn’t stand it.
I reached for her, my hands gentle but firm, pulling her against me. She stiffened, a broken "No—" escaping her lips, but I didn’t let go. Instead, I tightened my arms around her, my chest a wall against the storm of her sorrow.
"Let go," she choked out, her voice a shattered whisper, her body still resisting.
"Never," I murmured against her hair, my own voice rough with fury and something deeper, something wilder.
And then—
She broke.
A sob tore from her throat, her body collapsing against mine as the last of her resistance crumbled. Her forehead pressed into my shoulder, her tears soaking through my shirt, her entire frame shaking with the force of her grief.
"Peter—" she gasped, her voice cracking, her breath hitching. "He was all I had—" Another sob wracked her, her body jerking against me. "He was supposed to be safe—!"
Her plastered arms lifted slightly, as if she wanted to claw at the world, to fight the truth, but they fell back to her sides, useless. She couldn’t even hold herself together, let alone hold onto him.
So I did it for her.
I pulled her closer, my hands cradling the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her hair as I pressed her face into my chest. "I’ve got you," I said, my voice a low, feral growl. "I’ve got you, Sarah."