FIC: Darker Shades of Morning - R - Numb3rs - Fractured-verse
Welcome to the newly named Fractured series (aka psycho/dark!AU). Please heed all warnings!
Title: Darker Shades of Morning
Series: Fractured
Author: Lyl (lyl_devil)
Rating: R
Beta: strangevisitor7
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, I just play in other people’s sandboxes.
Warnings: death, destruction, violence, a few swear words - it’s the dark/psycho AU, people, what more warning do you need?
Words: ~5600
Summary: “We’ll get him back, Don,” Megan tells him. “We’ll get them both back, if we have to bring down this entire city to do it.” (sequel to When Dark Meets Night)
~!~
Megan stands in the bathroom doorway facing out, watching silently as Don paces around the destruction he’s wrought in the house. The small room had provided Megan with a safe haven from the chaos and anger whirling just outside the door. But she knew what she was getting in to when she stayed with the Eppes’ brothers, and this - dealing with one brother without the other - is part of it.
In the eight months she’s been with them, Megan thought she’d seen the full range of Don’s reactions and responses, but she’s spectacularly mistaken. Don is in full-on rage, barely keeping his instincts in check as he paces around the first floor of the house.
Megan takes a moment to appreciate the sight of that lean form, full of rage and violence. He’s already worked his way through the arsenal spread out on the dining room table; cleaning and oiling every gun until the parts move smooth as silk, sharpening and polishing the knives until they gleam in the early morning light. Now, he’s pacing the length of the house, dining room to living room to kitchen to hallway and back, his long legs eating up the distance.
He’s breathtaking and mesmerizing, a dangerous killer on the verge of a bloody battle. Megan almost feels a small stirring of heat in her stomach before reflexes kick in and clamp down on those animal emotions. Sex still isn’t an option, and she doubts it ever will be; she may get over the physical revulsion some day, but too many years of too much abuse have left its mark. If she ever manages to let someone into her bed willingly, they won’t leave it in anything other than a body bag.
That doesn’t stop her from appreciating the sheer menace Don is able to produce with a few precise movements and a look. It makes her blood sing every time, but somehow Megan doesn’t think the whimpering woman in the corner appreciates it nearly as much as Megan does. Then again, darling Sylvia has been the focus of Don’s undivided attention for much of the past few hours as he dragged information out of her, inch by agonizing inch. She’s curled up in between the wall and the sofa, most likely hoping that if she’s small enough and quiet enough, they’ll forget about her.
Not that Megan blames her for trying. Don’s been on a hair trigger ever since news of Charlie and David’s capture had hit the news. Megan knows the only reason he hasn’t turned on her is because she feels the same way and will do everything she can to bring them home and reign destruction upon the people who thought they could break apart their family. That includes those who dare to think they can lock Charlie in a cage of white walls and drugged thoughts.
Megan has become Don’s partner in the last eight months, so entwined with him that sometimes Megan can’t tell where she ends and Don begins. Don’s overriding need to protect Charlie and keep him happy and lucid has become her own, and she will do anything to keep Charlie safe.
Including walking back into a high security psychiatric facility.
Megan shifts her weight and gains Don’s attention. She takes a step forward when he stops, waiting as patiently as she can while he looks her over in careful detail. From the short, blonde wig to the dull, brown pumps, he takes it all in.
“Should fool anyone who doesn’t know her too well,” says Don. Megan can see his shoulders relax a little. He’s never been worried about her willingness to try this crazy plan of theirs, but he has been concerned that she couldn’t carry it off.
Impersonating a real person is risky enough in the subject’s own city, let alone in their place of work.
“We’ll get him back, Don,” Megan tells him. She steps closer, well into his personal space, adding, “We’ll get them both back, if we have to bring down this entire city to do it.”
Don rests his forehead against hers, a small twitching in the corner of his mouth, “Don’t tempt me.”
Megan smiles slightly for the first time since they lost half their family. “Would you like that?” she asks him softly, painting a picture she’s sure will get him interested in all the right ways. “Charlie can do the math, tell us where to go, who to hit. We’ll take out the radio and cell towers first; a series of secondary explosions for maximum casualties. This place could be rubble in a matter of days.”
A hand grabs her head, pulling it back, and Megan stands there, neck exposed, and feels teeth glossing over skin.
“I know what you’re doing,” he tells her, lips brushing her neck. His body feels solid against hers, some parts harder than others, but she doesn’t worry that this might escalate into more. Don’s not interested in her, especially when he has a body waiting in the other room for his undivided attention.
Megan doesn’t even try to deny his words. “It’s going to be a long day. You need a distraction.”
He hums quietly, moving the edge of her blouse out of the way with his other hand. Megan knows what to expect, but that still doesn’t stop her soft gasp when his teeth sink into her skin; hard enough to leave a mark, but not enough to bleed.
They may be partners, as close as two people can be without sex, but he’s still the alpha in their world. The bite is his way of reminding her that she is his, that she’s pushing him when she shouldn’t be; it’s a subtle form of dominance that she’s become familiar with. Something primal in her always reacts to Don when he’s like this, and it leaves her shaking and breathless when he releases her.
“Go,” he tells her, and Megan moves to grab up the purse on the sofa, carefully repacked the night before.
She casts one last glance at the bound woman in the corner, cataloguing the differences and similarities. Wide brown eyes meet hers, and Megan’s pleased to see they no longer look at her with desperate hope.
“Her rings,” Megan tells Don, motioning to the gold and diamonds on Sylvia’s bound hands.
As Don pulls the rings from her fingers, the woman makes more noises of protest than she had the night before when Megan had hamstrung her husband to keep him from running. He’s currently enjoying some solitary time in the basement. Both of them probably still have some hope of getting out of this alive, making Megan wonder why she was the one labeled ‘crazy’ when these two are clearly delusional.
Megan rinses off the rings in the sink before sliding them onto her fingers.
“Time for Dr Koffman to go to work,” says Don, watching her closely as she walks to the door. Three days of watching and planning have all led up to this impersonation.
“We’ll get them back, Don,” she tells him, pausing by the front door, because this is not only about Charlie. David Sinclair, their newest addition, needs some help to escape police custody, and Megan won’t let Don forget him. It had taken three bullets to take David down when the cops had cornered Charlie, and it was sheer luck that kept him alive. “Both of them,” she repeats, because loyalty like that is hard to find.
Don just stares, watching as she opens the front door.
A last glance inside tells her that Don’s turned his attention to the bound woman, now whimpering and shaking after a single look.
Megan figures that should keep Don occupied for a few hours, at least.
~!~
Dr Sylvia Koffman, Senior Psychologist, arrives at the Langer Psychiatric Institute for work at the same time every morning, driving through the security gates to park in the employee lot. She arrives in her office about fifteen minutes later, and greets everyone by name. By all accounts, she’s well liked and respected, friendly with the staff and the other doctors. She knows how to play the politics game, and how to deal with the law enforcement officers who constantly badger the Institute for results, diagnoses and changes of verdicts.
She has a husband, Ken, who works as a marketing consultant for one of the bigger firms in the city. They are both financially and personally stable, able to afford a large house in one of the more affluent neighborhoods in town. Despite coming from large families, they don’t have any children, and maybe never will. They are both content with their personal and professional lives, and even have a decent social life between them.
That’s what Megan knows after three days of surveillance and study. Don agrees. They’re a good choice.
Megan hates them both, right from the beginning. They’ve grown up in a world where nothing bad ever happens to them. They’ve had quiet childhoods with the right number of friends, gone to good schools and fell in love with each other. Nothing dangerous or wrong; everything safe and quiet.
Sylvia didn’t have to deal with an absent mother or a gambling father. She didn’t have to deal with the revolving door of men her father ushered into her bedroom, as a way to pay his gambling debts. Sylvia didn’t have to fight her way through her teen years, learning that a knife in the balls was a better deterrent than screaming or the police, and that Social Services didn’t have a single decent foster family in all of Queens. She didn’t have to fight her way to an academic scholarship while sharing a room with three other girls and two boys, and dear Sylvia never had to learn how to hide a body and sterilize a room at fifteen.
Megan also knows that Don hates the Koffman’s for very similar reasons, though his hatred is more directed at Ken. In the same way that Sylvia’s never known another kind of life, Ken’s never known, either.
Ken doesn’t know what it’s like to live a lie his entire life, changing names and cities at the drop of a hat. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live in fear of the police arriving on his doorstep to arrest his father for the series of bombings that preceded the latest move. Ken doesn’t know what it’s like to grow up knowing that he has to protect his baby brother from everyone, including himself, while watching him slip further and further into the numbers and equations that fill his mind. He didn’t grow up knowing how to build a bomb out of household chemicals, or how to shape a blast like an artist. He certainly doesn’t know what it’s like to watch his father die in his own explosion, taking seven cops with him to buy his sons enough time to disappear.
They both hate the Koffman’s; two perfect people in their perfect lives, while others struggle to stay on the right side of sanity.
Being perfect isn’t helping them now.
~!~
There’s nothing like coming home from work to a clean house and a good meal, Megan thinks facetiously when she opens the door to the Koffman’s house that night, taking in the smell of burnt flesh and bleach-scented air.
A quick glance tells her the kitchen is spotless, but the cleaning solvent smell is coming from the dining room, where several dozen homemade explosives are masquerading as rather innocuous household items. She’s always been amazed at Don’s creativity when it comes to disguising the bombs he builds. He’d once packed his homemade C-4 into every fire pull in an office building, setting off over a dozen secondary explosions as people tried to call for help.
She’ll get the lowdown on the hairbrush and mini-cactus later, because Don is standing in the middle of the living room, having pushed all the furniture either to the walls or out into the hall. His hair is wet from a shower, and a quick look tells her that darling Sylvia is nowhere to be seen.
Pulling the blonde wig off, Megan asks, “Don?” There’s no one thing about him that sets her on guard, but more a combination of the look on his face and the way he’s holding himself. He’s too still, like a wild animal about to pounce.
She seems to be the focus of his attention, and while that doesn’t sit right with her, Megan reconciles herself to the coming confrontation. It’s always been part of the plan to rough her up some, but Megan knows she’ll come away from this with more than the minimal but colourful bruising they’d discussed.
“Do you want me to change?” she asks as she slips off the designer pumps. She probably understands what’s going on better than Don, but that’s unimportant at the moment. His frustration and rage was bound to erupt at some point, but she’d hoped that Sylvia and Ken would bear the brunt of it.
She’s underestimated the depth of his instincts to protect Charlie, and how strong the anger and helplessness is riding him.
She won’t make that mistake again, but that doesn’t do anything for her right now.
“Come here,” he says. The tone raises the hairs on the back of her neck.
She’s moving before her mind has processed the command, stopping well within his reach. Any hesitation on her part will only make it worse, something she learned early on.
She tries not to flinch as Don lays a finger on her carotid artery, but knows she fails when his nail digs into the soft flesh covering her rapidly beating pulse. He trails the finger down along her throat to the base of her neck, scraping the skin in a slow path to where his mark from this morning rests.
His other hand undoes the top most buttons of her blouse, while his nails draw blood from the bite mark.
“Did anyone see this?” he asks Megan almost absently, fingers swirling in the blood. His eyes always tell his intentions, Megan’s discovered. The full body appraisal is reserved for prospective ‘dates’, while the quick, darting glances tell of assessing opponents. But it’s the long, intense looks that Megan has learned to watch out for, because those are reserved for when Don is planning some damage; he’s telegraphing his area of interest to anyone who knows him well enough.
Megan knows him. She knows to be hyper-aware of his eyes on her body, and the way he gazes at her throat - the same artery he’d toyed with first - is not a good sign.
“No. No one saw,” she whispers. The room feels cloying and hot, and Megan’s finding it harder to drag in the required oxygen.
Don hums his approval, nodding absently before meeting her gaze head on. It steals the remaining breath from her body, and she has to force her lungs to fill in a quick, shuddering breath.
“You’ve been doing a lot of the leg work - on your own a lot,” he tells her, his tone no different from any other day. His eyes tell her differently. “Been on your own so much, that you’ve forgotten your place.”
Megan wills herself to speak, to say anything to diffuse the intensity she can feel building up between them. Don slips his hand inside her gaping blouse, fingers and palm resting on the upper curve of her breast, thumb in the valley between, and anything she might have said evaporates in an instant.
He’s covering her heart, feeling the beat speed up the longer his hand stays there.
“You’re mine. This is mine,” he says, clear and steady. His fingers push firmly into her chest and Megan’s lips part on a gasp, because he’s never said it before. She’s known it since the night he let her out of Summerhill, has felt it with every part of her being, but it’s never been vocalized before now. Megan had offered and Don had taken, but this is the first time Don has ever mentioned it.
“Body, mind and soul, Megan. Mine. Never forget that.” Then he’s backing away from her, and she’s spinning from the loss of contact. So much so, that she doesn’t realize what’s happening until she’s stumbling back, head turning with the impact of the fist and the familiar taste of blood filling her mouth. She glances up just in time to see the second fist aiming for her head, and manages a half-decent block. She still takes the hit, but it’s only going to bruise, not bleed.
After that, it’s one hit after another; punch, kick, slap, kick, kick, punch. Megan’s putting up a half-hearted defense, knowing that she needs to look colourful for tomorrow, but after awhile she gets the suspicion that Don’s not intending to stop at ‘colourful’. Another kick lands on her hip, spinning her around, and Megan’s had enough. She’s not his punching bag. They have two bodies in the house for him to work out his frustrations - can get more easily enough if they need to - so there’s no need to take it out on her.
Megan starts to hit back. Blow for blow, pain for pain, she lets her anger give her strength.
“That’s more like it,” she hears Don mumble, and the words only add to her rage. Some small part of her is screaming that he’s doing this on purpose, driving her past the point of her control, but the larger part, the animal part, has had enough. She swings and kicks with more strength and rage behind every blow, instinctively shying away from hits or moves that would incapacitate him. Don’s doing the same thing, sacrificing efficiency for care; toying with her.
At the point where she’s on her knees, Don’s hand twisting in her hair to keep her still while he pinned her in place, he says, “Say it. Submit.”
All she’s capable of is a growl of pure anger and hate, refusing to give in, to give the last bit of herself to this man. She’s strong and capable and smart, but above all she’s a survivor. No man or woman has managed to break her in all these years, and it’s that last wall inside herself that Don wants to cross. She’s given him everything she’s willing to give, but he still wants more. Don wants it all, every part of her.
She’s a fighter; she won’t go down without one hell of a fight.
She manages to get an elbow free, then she’s back on her feet, the last of her rational mind gone in the fog of her red-tinted fury. The thin layer of humanity she hides behind had been shed, and won’t be contained again easily. The animal inside her skin is let loose, attacking without fear or restraint.
It meets an animal bigger and stronger and faster than itself, but doesn’t stop. Submission or death are the only options, and its survival instinct is strong.
Time turns taffy-like, stretching and pulling at different rates, but through it all is the fight. Fists and feet and legs, pulling and rolling and tussling, all tumbling together in an incoherent choreography of dominance and the instinct to survive.
“Say it,” comes the voice again, pulling at something deep within. “Submit.” Feeling returns slowly, and with it the sense of being trapped, held captive. Face down on the floor, legs pinned, one hand twisted up her back with the other trapped beneath her - she’s caught. They both know it, but she still twists and turns, struggling desperately beneath this man who wants to claim every last shred of her.
He holds her like that while she wears herself out, until she’s tense and panting into the blood spattered carpet.
“Say it,” he murmurs into her ear. She hadn’t realized he was that close, his lips brushing the shell before teeth come out to gently bite. “Say it,” he repeats, nuzzling his way down her neck, forcing her head back painfully. Teeth, again, but firmer this time, and her gasping breaths are verging on sobs.
Another move, and he’s tracing her cheekbones and over her closed eyes with his nose.
“Say it.” Harder this time, more commanding.
One last bid for freedom is all she has left before she goes limp, defeated and broken, laid bare before him.
Finally, she gives in. “Submit.” The word feels dredged up from her very soul, painful and filled with meaning.
She’s not prepared for his sudden movement, flipping her onto her back. Megan can feel him hovering above her, knees on either side of her hips, hands next to her head. She’s trapped just as effectively as before, only this time with the illusion of freedom.
“Look at me,” Don commands. She obeys, opening her eyes to see a watery, dark form above her. Gentle hands wipe away the tears she wasn’t aware she’d shed, Don filling up her field of view.
He looks dark and intense, not the least bit victorious or pleased. It sooths her somewhat, knowing he understands exactly how far down he’s taken her; what he’s taken from her.
“You’re mine, Megan. Always,” he vows, meeting her eyes head on. “I’ll be there if you’re in trouble, if you’re in danger. I’ll be by your side through the joy, the adrenaline, the blood and the fire. I’ll protect you from your enemies and your fears, and I’ll help you destroy them all. A family until the end.”
Her vocal chords are frozen, her body still as death, waiting for the words to finish reverberating through her head. They cause goosebumps to form all over her body, alternating hot and cold rushes as she tries to wrap her mind around what he’s just said - what he’s offered her.
“Do you understand?” he asks her, and it takes every ounce of will power to nod. The words sink into her skin, branding her very soul with Don’s vows.
Don slides his body across hers, his weight pinning her to the ground, and unlike past experiences, there’s no instinctive revulsion, no urge to push up and away.
Megan’s hands clench in the dark material of his shirt, pulling him closer, nestling her head in the crook of his neck. She breathes him in, the scent of blood and pine cleaner overlaying the deeper scent that is purely Don; that is home.
Her fingers grasp at his back and she lets her mind float free for awhile, able to ignore the aches and pains of her body with long practice.
Some time later, Don moves, disturbing her from her head space. He rearranges them back to front, his body curved around hers, never losing that safe feeling. One arm is her pillow and the other is curled around her stomach, his head so close his breath is ruffling the hairs on her forehead. Megan twines her fingers with his, needing as much contact as possible between them.
She feels torn open, ripped apart, and the only thing keeping the pieces together is Don. And maybe he was right all along, that she was forgetting her place. She’s spent too much time in someone else’s skin, living another life, losing her place in her own. Right here, with Don, and with Charlie and David, this is her place. And while the methods are somewhat objectionable, the end result is not.
She feels like she belongs with this man, and that is a feeling more powerful and more addictive than any drug. Withdrawal will undoubtedly kill her, and maybe that’s what held her back all along - the thought of losing all this one day, of living without Don in her life.
After an eternity of silence, as if reading her mind, Don says, “You’ll never have to live without us.”
And then, “I’ll never let you be alone.”
Some might take that as a threat.
To Megan, it’s a promise.
~!~
The next day they’re all packed into a car heading north, leaving rubble, bodies and chaos in their wake. Megan’s grip on the gun in her lap begins to relax as Don puts more and more miles between them and that damn city.
The car is quiet now, Don having turned the radio off fifty miles back.
In the back, David is spread out as much as possible, trying to keep pressure off his wounds. He’s paler than Megan ever thought he could possibly achieve, but he’s breathing deep and regular without a pain med in sight.
Don said that David did well today, but even without hearing it from Don, Megan would have known. Something happened between them in the hospital while Don was cutting his way through armed guards and nursing staff, something that’s forged a bond between them that hasn’t been there until now. Megan doesn’t know if she’ll ever find out what, but isn’t too worried about that. Don has accepted David into their family; he’s here to stay. It’s what she’s been hoping for since they crossed paths with the former cop in New York.
David is half laying on Charlie in the back, and while David sleeps, Charlie doesn’t even bother trying. He’s scribbling away in his notebook, mumbling math proofs under his breath, using David’s legs as a desk.
The spiral notebook is too small to contain the brilliance that is Charlie’s math, but it will have to do until they find a new place to settle. Walking in to Charlie’s room at the institute yesterday and seeing all those white walls, completely bare of equations, had felt like a punch to the gut. But she’d been playing Dr Koffman, and Sylvia wouldn’t be affected like Megan had been.
On the first day, Megan had pulled enough psycho-babble out of her brain to talk around the nurse and detective who’d come to check on Charlie. Neither had noticed her changing Charlie’s meds on his chart to something less coma-inducing and with a higher metabolic rate.
The second day was when Megan planted Don’s little presents around the hospital. The perfect distraction and cover.
~!~
At a rest stop across state lines, Megan finally takes the time to breathe. Staring at herself in the washroom mirror, she clinically assesses the extent of the damage. Her face looks worse than it is, bruises purpling from her jawline to her temple. She tastes blood if she moves her bruised lips the wrong way. One eye is blackened, the blood vessels in her eye exploding, veins and pools of red marbling the white. Her jaw is still sore, and movement makes her face ache, pulling muscles and tendons from her ear down to her neck.
The bite mark is still vibrantly visible under the borrowed blouse, slightly worse for wear after Don’s attentions last night, but Megan won’t complain. It’s evidence. Proof. A statement of intent and a declaration of belonging that Megan can’t regret.
She peels off the black suit jacket she’s been wearing for far too long, trying not to wince as the movement pulls at the wound in her side. Her brain won’t stop the constant replay of events from earlier in the day.
“Dr Koffman, there are some men from the FBI waiting for you in your office.”
Stupid FBI agents. Why couldn’t they just go down like they were suppose to? In fact, why did they have to be there in the first place? Charlie had been drugged into a stupor, so there was no way they were going to get anything out of him if they had tried. Well, if he’d still been drugged. Pulling dead weight out of a psychiatric hospital is a bad plan all around, so Megan had taken care of that little detail.
Undoing the blouse, she pulls it off and lets it fall to the floor. Her eyes skip over the various bruising and scrapes scattered across her upper body, lingering briefly on the finger shaped marks on her upper arms and wrists. Those had been deliberate, applied by Don’s hands late last night, after their fight.
”My God, Sylvia - what happened to your face?”
A few roundabout comments gave the impression of spousal abuse, until the FBI agents started to ask leading questions. Megan led them straight to the conclusion that ‘Don Eppes, serial psychopath’ was coercing poor, delicate Sylvia Koffman into helping him break Charlie out.
She’d cut down on the number of agents by half when she ‘suggested’ that Don may still be at the house, holding Ken Koffman hostage and waiting for her to call with information on how to get to Charlie. She knew Don had been gone from the Koffman house for hours already, and it left her with a handful of agents to deal with at the facility. She still almost hadn’t made it out with Charlie, but her own instinct to survive and protect had given her the edge.
Megan hadn’t realized Don had booby trapped the house until an hour out of town. The last news report they’d heard had listed the body count at nine, with three more in critical condition. Not as high as some of his other explosions - like at the hospital, for instance - but enough to make a dent. It will be days before anyone realizes that two of those bodies belong to the owners of the house, the explosion had been that powerful and hot.
A door opening behind her brings her back to the present, the images of the day’s earlier violence pushed to the back of her mind as she sees Don reflected in the mirror.
“I thought I saw you holding yourself awkwardly,” he says, coming up behind her. He pokes gently at the wound in her side - a graze by a bullet she hadn’t felt until the adrenaline had worn off.
“Lucky shot,” she tells him, lifting her arms away from her body. “Charlie?” she asks softly.
“David’s awake and armed,” is all he says, and that’s enough to ease her mind.
Megan stands still and quiet in her bra and suit pants as Don proceeds to clean and bandage the tract the bullet made in her side. When he’s done, he moves to stand behind her, catching her eyes in the mirror. His hands move to her hips, holding her in place. The feel of his shirt is soft on the bare skin of her back, the heat of his body permeating hers. With any other person she’d be ripping their balls off and breaking their fingers for daring to touch her like this. But this is Don. She’s always had a slower reaction to him, knowing instinctively that he’s not interested in her sexually, but this is different. There’s no tensing of muscles, no instinctive fight response, no feeling of dread and anger and revulsion. Instead, she feels steady and safe, like the apocalypse itself couldn’t budge her from this time and place with this man.
What Don did last night did more than just mess with her head, she realizes. Don has wormed his way under her skin, into her very being, a place that she normally guards like a diamond mine in the Oval Office. He’s pushed his way deep into her very core, bypassed the instincts that have kept her alive since she was nine, and Megan knows she’ll never be the same again.
She breathes out his name, knowing she should be embarrassed by the way it sounds, but can’t find it in herself to hide even that much. His name on her lips is like a talisman, a prayer, a feeling of belonging and comfort and safety and home. In essence, everything she’s secretly wanted from this man, but couldn’t admit to herself.
Don moves in closer behind her pressing deliberately against her back, his hands tightening on her hips as he moves his head to rest against the side of hers. As he fits himself to her body, Megan is relieved to feel no hint of arousal from him. She wonders if he’s finding this moment as profound as she is, because as far as Megan can tell, Don has never met a woman he hasn’t wanted to fuck. Megan’s never met a woman who didn’t want to fuck him. Don’s got no respect for women who fall face first for his handsome face and pretty words, which is 99.9% of them. She thinks he finds her a fascinating conundrum, and possibly a relief.
Megan moves her hands to rest over her hips, trailing her fingers over his own as her body relaxes into his.
She’s never dreamt of finding the perfect man for many reasons, her disgust for the whole species number one on the list. But Megan thinks she’s found the impossible in this man, and knows she won’t let anyone take him away. She’ll tear the world apart to keep him by her side.
Meeting Don’s eyes in the mirror again, she realizes that Don would do the same for her.
What more could a girl ask for?
END
Title: Darker Shades of Morning
Series: Fractured
Author: Lyl (lyl_devil)
Rating: R
Beta: strangevisitor7
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, I just play in other people’s sandboxes.
Warnings: death, destruction, violence, a few swear words - it’s the dark/psycho AU, people, what more warning do you need?
Words: ~5600
Summary: “We’ll get him back, Don,” Megan tells him. “We’ll get them both back, if we have to bring down this entire city to do it.” (sequel to When Dark Meets Night)
~!~
Megan stands in the bathroom doorway facing out, watching silently as Don paces around the destruction he’s wrought in the house. The small room had provided Megan with a safe haven from the chaos and anger whirling just outside the door. But she knew what she was getting in to when she stayed with the Eppes’ brothers, and this - dealing with one brother without the other - is part of it.
In the eight months she’s been with them, Megan thought she’d seen the full range of Don’s reactions and responses, but she’s spectacularly mistaken. Don is in full-on rage, barely keeping his instincts in check as he paces around the first floor of the house.
Megan takes a moment to appreciate the sight of that lean form, full of rage and violence. He’s already worked his way through the arsenal spread out on the dining room table; cleaning and oiling every gun until the parts move smooth as silk, sharpening and polishing the knives until they gleam in the early morning light. Now, he’s pacing the length of the house, dining room to living room to kitchen to hallway and back, his long legs eating up the distance.
He’s breathtaking and mesmerizing, a dangerous killer on the verge of a bloody battle. Megan almost feels a small stirring of heat in her stomach before reflexes kick in and clamp down on those animal emotions. Sex still isn’t an option, and she doubts it ever will be; she may get over the physical revulsion some day, but too many years of too much abuse have left its mark. If she ever manages to let someone into her bed willingly, they won’t leave it in anything other than a body bag.
That doesn’t stop her from appreciating the sheer menace Don is able to produce with a few precise movements and a look. It makes her blood sing every time, but somehow Megan doesn’t think the whimpering woman in the corner appreciates it nearly as much as Megan does. Then again, darling Sylvia has been the focus of Don’s undivided attention for much of the past few hours as he dragged information out of her, inch by agonizing inch. She’s curled up in between the wall and the sofa, most likely hoping that if she’s small enough and quiet enough, they’ll forget about her.
Not that Megan blames her for trying. Don’s been on a hair trigger ever since news of Charlie and David’s capture had hit the news. Megan knows the only reason he hasn’t turned on her is because she feels the same way and will do everything she can to bring them home and reign destruction upon the people who thought they could break apart their family. That includes those who dare to think they can lock Charlie in a cage of white walls and drugged thoughts.
Megan has become Don’s partner in the last eight months, so entwined with him that sometimes Megan can’t tell where she ends and Don begins. Don’s overriding need to protect Charlie and keep him happy and lucid has become her own, and she will do anything to keep Charlie safe.
Including walking back into a high security psychiatric facility.
Megan shifts her weight and gains Don’s attention. She takes a step forward when he stops, waiting as patiently as she can while he looks her over in careful detail. From the short, blonde wig to the dull, brown pumps, he takes it all in.
“Should fool anyone who doesn’t know her too well,” says Don. Megan can see his shoulders relax a little. He’s never been worried about her willingness to try this crazy plan of theirs, but he has been concerned that she couldn’t carry it off.
Impersonating a real person is risky enough in the subject’s own city, let alone in their place of work.
“We’ll get him back, Don,” Megan tells him. She steps closer, well into his personal space, adding, “We’ll get them both back, if we have to bring down this entire city to do it.”
Don rests his forehead against hers, a small twitching in the corner of his mouth, “Don’t tempt me.”
Megan smiles slightly for the first time since they lost half their family. “Would you like that?” she asks him softly, painting a picture she’s sure will get him interested in all the right ways. “Charlie can do the math, tell us where to go, who to hit. We’ll take out the radio and cell towers first; a series of secondary explosions for maximum casualties. This place could be rubble in a matter of days.”
A hand grabs her head, pulling it back, and Megan stands there, neck exposed, and feels teeth glossing over skin.
“I know what you’re doing,” he tells her, lips brushing her neck. His body feels solid against hers, some parts harder than others, but she doesn’t worry that this might escalate into more. Don’s not interested in her, especially when he has a body waiting in the other room for his undivided attention.
Megan doesn’t even try to deny his words. “It’s going to be a long day. You need a distraction.”
He hums quietly, moving the edge of her blouse out of the way with his other hand. Megan knows what to expect, but that still doesn’t stop her soft gasp when his teeth sink into her skin; hard enough to leave a mark, but not enough to bleed.
They may be partners, as close as two people can be without sex, but he’s still the alpha in their world. The bite is his way of reminding her that she is his, that she’s pushing him when she shouldn’t be; it’s a subtle form of dominance that she’s become familiar with. Something primal in her always reacts to Don when he’s like this, and it leaves her shaking and breathless when he releases her.
“Go,” he tells her, and Megan moves to grab up the purse on the sofa, carefully repacked the night before.
She casts one last glance at the bound woman in the corner, cataloguing the differences and similarities. Wide brown eyes meet hers, and Megan’s pleased to see they no longer look at her with desperate hope.
“Her rings,” Megan tells Don, motioning to the gold and diamonds on Sylvia’s bound hands.
As Don pulls the rings from her fingers, the woman makes more noises of protest than she had the night before when Megan had hamstrung her husband to keep him from running. He’s currently enjoying some solitary time in the basement. Both of them probably still have some hope of getting out of this alive, making Megan wonder why she was the one labeled ‘crazy’ when these two are clearly delusional.
Megan rinses off the rings in the sink before sliding them onto her fingers.
“Time for Dr Koffman to go to work,” says Don, watching her closely as she walks to the door. Three days of watching and planning have all led up to this impersonation.
“We’ll get them back, Don,” she tells him, pausing by the front door, because this is not only about Charlie. David Sinclair, their newest addition, needs some help to escape police custody, and Megan won’t let Don forget him. It had taken three bullets to take David down when the cops had cornered Charlie, and it was sheer luck that kept him alive. “Both of them,” she repeats, because loyalty like that is hard to find.
Don just stares, watching as she opens the front door.
A last glance inside tells her that Don’s turned his attention to the bound woman, now whimpering and shaking after a single look.
Megan figures that should keep Don occupied for a few hours, at least.
~!~
Dr Sylvia Koffman, Senior Psychologist, arrives at the Langer Psychiatric Institute for work at the same time every morning, driving through the security gates to park in the employee lot. She arrives in her office about fifteen minutes later, and greets everyone by name. By all accounts, she’s well liked and respected, friendly with the staff and the other doctors. She knows how to play the politics game, and how to deal with the law enforcement officers who constantly badger the Institute for results, diagnoses and changes of verdicts.
She has a husband, Ken, who works as a marketing consultant for one of the bigger firms in the city. They are both financially and personally stable, able to afford a large house in one of the more affluent neighborhoods in town. Despite coming from large families, they don’t have any children, and maybe never will. They are both content with their personal and professional lives, and even have a decent social life between them.
That’s what Megan knows after three days of surveillance and study. Don agrees. They’re a good choice.
Megan hates them both, right from the beginning. They’ve grown up in a world where nothing bad ever happens to them. They’ve had quiet childhoods with the right number of friends, gone to good schools and fell in love with each other. Nothing dangerous or wrong; everything safe and quiet.
Sylvia didn’t have to deal with an absent mother or a gambling father. She didn’t have to deal with the revolving door of men her father ushered into her bedroom, as a way to pay his gambling debts. Sylvia didn’t have to fight her way through her teen years, learning that a knife in the balls was a better deterrent than screaming or the police, and that Social Services didn’t have a single decent foster family in all of Queens. She didn’t have to fight her way to an academic scholarship while sharing a room with three other girls and two boys, and dear Sylvia never had to learn how to hide a body and sterilize a room at fifteen.
Megan also knows that Don hates the Koffman’s for very similar reasons, though his hatred is more directed at Ken. In the same way that Sylvia’s never known another kind of life, Ken’s never known, either.
Ken doesn’t know what it’s like to live a lie his entire life, changing names and cities at the drop of a hat. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live in fear of the police arriving on his doorstep to arrest his father for the series of bombings that preceded the latest move. Ken doesn’t know what it’s like to grow up knowing that he has to protect his baby brother from everyone, including himself, while watching him slip further and further into the numbers and equations that fill his mind. He didn’t grow up knowing how to build a bomb out of household chemicals, or how to shape a blast like an artist. He certainly doesn’t know what it’s like to watch his father die in his own explosion, taking seven cops with him to buy his sons enough time to disappear.
They both hate the Koffman’s; two perfect people in their perfect lives, while others struggle to stay on the right side of sanity.
Being perfect isn’t helping them now.
~!~
There’s nothing like coming home from work to a clean house and a good meal, Megan thinks facetiously when she opens the door to the Koffman’s house that night, taking in the smell of burnt flesh and bleach-scented air.
A quick glance tells her the kitchen is spotless, but the cleaning solvent smell is coming from the dining room, where several dozen homemade explosives are masquerading as rather innocuous household items. She’s always been amazed at Don’s creativity when it comes to disguising the bombs he builds. He’d once packed his homemade C-4 into every fire pull in an office building, setting off over a dozen secondary explosions as people tried to call for help.
She’ll get the lowdown on the hairbrush and mini-cactus later, because Don is standing in the middle of the living room, having pushed all the furniture either to the walls or out into the hall. His hair is wet from a shower, and a quick look tells her that darling Sylvia is nowhere to be seen.
Pulling the blonde wig off, Megan asks, “Don?” There’s no one thing about him that sets her on guard, but more a combination of the look on his face and the way he’s holding himself. He’s too still, like a wild animal about to pounce.
She seems to be the focus of his attention, and while that doesn’t sit right with her, Megan reconciles herself to the coming confrontation. It’s always been part of the plan to rough her up some, but Megan knows she’ll come away from this with more than the minimal but colourful bruising they’d discussed.
“Do you want me to change?” she asks as she slips off the designer pumps. She probably understands what’s going on better than Don, but that’s unimportant at the moment. His frustration and rage was bound to erupt at some point, but she’d hoped that Sylvia and Ken would bear the brunt of it.
She’s underestimated the depth of his instincts to protect Charlie, and how strong the anger and helplessness is riding him.
She won’t make that mistake again, but that doesn’t do anything for her right now.
“Come here,” he says. The tone raises the hairs on the back of her neck.
She’s moving before her mind has processed the command, stopping well within his reach. Any hesitation on her part will only make it worse, something she learned early on.
She tries not to flinch as Don lays a finger on her carotid artery, but knows she fails when his nail digs into the soft flesh covering her rapidly beating pulse. He trails the finger down along her throat to the base of her neck, scraping the skin in a slow path to where his mark from this morning rests.
His other hand undoes the top most buttons of her blouse, while his nails draw blood from the bite mark.
“Did anyone see this?” he asks Megan almost absently, fingers swirling in the blood. His eyes always tell his intentions, Megan’s discovered. The full body appraisal is reserved for prospective ‘dates’, while the quick, darting glances tell of assessing opponents. But it’s the long, intense looks that Megan has learned to watch out for, because those are reserved for when Don is planning some damage; he’s telegraphing his area of interest to anyone who knows him well enough.
Megan knows him. She knows to be hyper-aware of his eyes on her body, and the way he gazes at her throat - the same artery he’d toyed with first - is not a good sign.
“No. No one saw,” she whispers. The room feels cloying and hot, and Megan’s finding it harder to drag in the required oxygen.
Don hums his approval, nodding absently before meeting her gaze head on. It steals the remaining breath from her body, and she has to force her lungs to fill in a quick, shuddering breath.
“You’ve been doing a lot of the leg work - on your own a lot,” he tells her, his tone no different from any other day. His eyes tell her differently. “Been on your own so much, that you’ve forgotten your place.”
Megan wills herself to speak, to say anything to diffuse the intensity she can feel building up between them. Don slips his hand inside her gaping blouse, fingers and palm resting on the upper curve of her breast, thumb in the valley between, and anything she might have said evaporates in an instant.
He’s covering her heart, feeling the beat speed up the longer his hand stays there.
“You’re mine. This is mine,” he says, clear and steady. His fingers push firmly into her chest and Megan’s lips part on a gasp, because he’s never said it before. She’s known it since the night he let her out of Summerhill, has felt it with every part of her being, but it’s never been vocalized before now. Megan had offered and Don had taken, but this is the first time Don has ever mentioned it.
“Body, mind and soul, Megan. Mine. Never forget that.” Then he’s backing away from her, and she’s spinning from the loss of contact. So much so, that she doesn’t realize what’s happening until she’s stumbling back, head turning with the impact of the fist and the familiar taste of blood filling her mouth. She glances up just in time to see the second fist aiming for her head, and manages a half-decent block. She still takes the hit, but it’s only going to bruise, not bleed.
After that, it’s one hit after another; punch, kick, slap, kick, kick, punch. Megan’s putting up a half-hearted defense, knowing that she needs to look colourful for tomorrow, but after awhile she gets the suspicion that Don’s not intending to stop at ‘colourful’. Another kick lands on her hip, spinning her around, and Megan’s had enough. She’s not his punching bag. They have two bodies in the house for him to work out his frustrations - can get more easily enough if they need to - so there’s no need to take it out on her.
Megan starts to hit back. Blow for blow, pain for pain, she lets her anger give her strength.
“That’s more like it,” she hears Don mumble, and the words only add to her rage. Some small part of her is screaming that he’s doing this on purpose, driving her past the point of her control, but the larger part, the animal part, has had enough. She swings and kicks with more strength and rage behind every blow, instinctively shying away from hits or moves that would incapacitate him. Don’s doing the same thing, sacrificing efficiency for care; toying with her.
At the point where she’s on her knees, Don’s hand twisting in her hair to keep her still while he pinned her in place, he says, “Say it. Submit.”
All she’s capable of is a growl of pure anger and hate, refusing to give in, to give the last bit of herself to this man. She’s strong and capable and smart, but above all she’s a survivor. No man or woman has managed to break her in all these years, and it’s that last wall inside herself that Don wants to cross. She’s given him everything she’s willing to give, but he still wants more. Don wants it all, every part of her.
She’s a fighter; she won’t go down without one hell of a fight.
She manages to get an elbow free, then she’s back on her feet, the last of her rational mind gone in the fog of her red-tinted fury. The thin layer of humanity she hides behind had been shed, and won’t be contained again easily. The animal inside her skin is let loose, attacking without fear or restraint.
It meets an animal bigger and stronger and faster than itself, but doesn’t stop. Submission or death are the only options, and its survival instinct is strong.
Time turns taffy-like, stretching and pulling at different rates, but through it all is the fight. Fists and feet and legs, pulling and rolling and tussling, all tumbling together in an incoherent choreography of dominance and the instinct to survive.
“Say it,” comes the voice again, pulling at something deep within. “Submit.” Feeling returns slowly, and with it the sense of being trapped, held captive. Face down on the floor, legs pinned, one hand twisted up her back with the other trapped beneath her - she’s caught. They both know it, but she still twists and turns, struggling desperately beneath this man who wants to claim every last shred of her.
He holds her like that while she wears herself out, until she’s tense and panting into the blood spattered carpet.
“Say it,” he murmurs into her ear. She hadn’t realized he was that close, his lips brushing the shell before teeth come out to gently bite. “Say it,” he repeats, nuzzling his way down her neck, forcing her head back painfully. Teeth, again, but firmer this time, and her gasping breaths are verging on sobs.
Another move, and he’s tracing her cheekbones and over her closed eyes with his nose.
“Say it.” Harder this time, more commanding.
One last bid for freedom is all she has left before she goes limp, defeated and broken, laid bare before him.
Finally, she gives in. “Submit.” The word feels dredged up from her very soul, painful and filled with meaning.
She’s not prepared for his sudden movement, flipping her onto her back. Megan can feel him hovering above her, knees on either side of her hips, hands next to her head. She’s trapped just as effectively as before, only this time with the illusion of freedom.
“Look at me,” Don commands. She obeys, opening her eyes to see a watery, dark form above her. Gentle hands wipe away the tears she wasn’t aware she’d shed, Don filling up her field of view.
He looks dark and intense, not the least bit victorious or pleased. It sooths her somewhat, knowing he understands exactly how far down he’s taken her; what he’s taken from her.
“You’re mine, Megan. Always,” he vows, meeting her eyes head on. “I’ll be there if you’re in trouble, if you’re in danger. I’ll be by your side through the joy, the adrenaline, the blood and the fire. I’ll protect you from your enemies and your fears, and I’ll help you destroy them all. A family until the end.”
Her vocal chords are frozen, her body still as death, waiting for the words to finish reverberating through her head. They cause goosebumps to form all over her body, alternating hot and cold rushes as she tries to wrap her mind around what he’s just said - what he’s offered her.
“Do you understand?” he asks her, and it takes every ounce of will power to nod. The words sink into her skin, branding her very soul with Don’s vows.
Don slides his body across hers, his weight pinning her to the ground, and unlike past experiences, there’s no instinctive revulsion, no urge to push up and away.
Megan’s hands clench in the dark material of his shirt, pulling him closer, nestling her head in the crook of his neck. She breathes him in, the scent of blood and pine cleaner overlaying the deeper scent that is purely Don; that is home.
Her fingers grasp at his back and she lets her mind float free for awhile, able to ignore the aches and pains of her body with long practice.
Some time later, Don moves, disturbing her from her head space. He rearranges them back to front, his body curved around hers, never losing that safe feeling. One arm is her pillow and the other is curled around her stomach, his head so close his breath is ruffling the hairs on her forehead. Megan twines her fingers with his, needing as much contact as possible between them.
She feels torn open, ripped apart, and the only thing keeping the pieces together is Don. And maybe he was right all along, that she was forgetting her place. She’s spent too much time in someone else’s skin, living another life, losing her place in her own. Right here, with Don, and with Charlie and David, this is her place. And while the methods are somewhat objectionable, the end result is not.
She feels like she belongs with this man, and that is a feeling more powerful and more addictive than any drug. Withdrawal will undoubtedly kill her, and maybe that’s what held her back all along - the thought of losing all this one day, of living without Don in her life.
After an eternity of silence, as if reading her mind, Don says, “You’ll never have to live without us.”
And then, “I’ll never let you be alone.”
Some might take that as a threat.
To Megan, it’s a promise.
~!~
The next day they’re all packed into a car heading north, leaving rubble, bodies and chaos in their wake. Megan’s grip on the gun in her lap begins to relax as Don puts more and more miles between them and that damn city.
The car is quiet now, Don having turned the radio off fifty miles back.
In the back, David is spread out as much as possible, trying to keep pressure off his wounds. He’s paler than Megan ever thought he could possibly achieve, but he’s breathing deep and regular without a pain med in sight.
Don said that David did well today, but even without hearing it from Don, Megan would have known. Something happened between them in the hospital while Don was cutting his way through armed guards and nursing staff, something that’s forged a bond between them that hasn’t been there until now. Megan doesn’t know if she’ll ever find out what, but isn’t too worried about that. Don has accepted David into their family; he’s here to stay. It’s what she’s been hoping for since they crossed paths with the former cop in New York.
David is half laying on Charlie in the back, and while David sleeps, Charlie doesn’t even bother trying. He’s scribbling away in his notebook, mumbling math proofs under his breath, using David’s legs as a desk.
The spiral notebook is too small to contain the brilliance that is Charlie’s math, but it will have to do until they find a new place to settle. Walking in to Charlie’s room at the institute yesterday and seeing all those white walls, completely bare of equations, had felt like a punch to the gut. But she’d been playing Dr Koffman, and Sylvia wouldn’t be affected like Megan had been.
On the first day, Megan had pulled enough psycho-babble out of her brain to talk around the nurse and detective who’d come to check on Charlie. Neither had noticed her changing Charlie’s meds on his chart to something less coma-inducing and with a higher metabolic rate.
The second day was when Megan planted Don’s little presents around the hospital. The perfect distraction and cover.
~!~
At a rest stop across state lines, Megan finally takes the time to breathe. Staring at herself in the washroom mirror, she clinically assesses the extent of the damage. Her face looks worse than it is, bruises purpling from her jawline to her temple. She tastes blood if she moves her bruised lips the wrong way. One eye is blackened, the blood vessels in her eye exploding, veins and pools of red marbling the white. Her jaw is still sore, and movement makes her face ache, pulling muscles and tendons from her ear down to her neck.
The bite mark is still vibrantly visible under the borrowed blouse, slightly worse for wear after Don’s attentions last night, but Megan won’t complain. It’s evidence. Proof. A statement of intent and a declaration of belonging that Megan can’t regret.
She peels off the black suit jacket she’s been wearing for far too long, trying not to wince as the movement pulls at the wound in her side. Her brain won’t stop the constant replay of events from earlier in the day.
“Dr Koffman, there are some men from the FBI waiting for you in your office.”
Stupid FBI agents. Why couldn’t they just go down like they were suppose to? In fact, why did they have to be there in the first place? Charlie had been drugged into a stupor, so there was no way they were going to get anything out of him if they had tried. Well, if he’d still been drugged. Pulling dead weight out of a psychiatric hospital is a bad plan all around, so Megan had taken care of that little detail.
Undoing the blouse, she pulls it off and lets it fall to the floor. Her eyes skip over the various bruising and scrapes scattered across her upper body, lingering briefly on the finger shaped marks on her upper arms and wrists. Those had been deliberate, applied by Don’s hands late last night, after their fight.
”My God, Sylvia - what happened to your face?”
A few roundabout comments gave the impression of spousal abuse, until the FBI agents started to ask leading questions. Megan led them straight to the conclusion that ‘Don Eppes, serial psychopath’ was coercing poor, delicate Sylvia Koffman into helping him break Charlie out.
She’d cut down on the number of agents by half when she ‘suggested’ that Don may still be at the house, holding Ken Koffman hostage and waiting for her to call with information on how to get to Charlie. She knew Don had been gone from the Koffman house for hours already, and it left her with a handful of agents to deal with at the facility. She still almost hadn’t made it out with Charlie, but her own instinct to survive and protect had given her the edge.
Megan hadn’t realized Don had booby trapped the house until an hour out of town. The last news report they’d heard had listed the body count at nine, with three more in critical condition. Not as high as some of his other explosions - like at the hospital, for instance - but enough to make a dent. It will be days before anyone realizes that two of those bodies belong to the owners of the house, the explosion had been that powerful and hot.
A door opening behind her brings her back to the present, the images of the day’s earlier violence pushed to the back of her mind as she sees Don reflected in the mirror.
“I thought I saw you holding yourself awkwardly,” he says, coming up behind her. He pokes gently at the wound in her side - a graze by a bullet she hadn’t felt until the adrenaline had worn off.
“Lucky shot,” she tells him, lifting her arms away from her body. “Charlie?” she asks softly.
“David’s awake and armed,” is all he says, and that’s enough to ease her mind.
Megan stands still and quiet in her bra and suit pants as Don proceeds to clean and bandage the tract the bullet made in her side. When he’s done, he moves to stand behind her, catching her eyes in the mirror. His hands move to her hips, holding her in place. The feel of his shirt is soft on the bare skin of her back, the heat of his body permeating hers. With any other person she’d be ripping their balls off and breaking their fingers for daring to touch her like this. But this is Don. She’s always had a slower reaction to him, knowing instinctively that he’s not interested in her sexually, but this is different. There’s no tensing of muscles, no instinctive fight response, no feeling of dread and anger and revulsion. Instead, she feels steady and safe, like the apocalypse itself couldn’t budge her from this time and place with this man.
What Don did last night did more than just mess with her head, she realizes. Don has wormed his way under her skin, into her very being, a place that she normally guards like a diamond mine in the Oval Office. He’s pushed his way deep into her very core, bypassed the instincts that have kept her alive since she was nine, and Megan knows she’ll never be the same again.
She breathes out his name, knowing she should be embarrassed by the way it sounds, but can’t find it in herself to hide even that much. His name on her lips is like a talisman, a prayer, a feeling of belonging and comfort and safety and home. In essence, everything she’s secretly wanted from this man, but couldn’t admit to herself.
Don moves in closer behind her pressing deliberately against her back, his hands tightening on her hips as he moves his head to rest against the side of hers. As he fits himself to her body, Megan is relieved to feel no hint of arousal from him. She wonders if he’s finding this moment as profound as she is, because as far as Megan can tell, Don has never met a woman he hasn’t wanted to fuck. Megan’s never met a woman who didn’t want to fuck him. Don’s got no respect for women who fall face first for his handsome face and pretty words, which is 99.9% of them. She thinks he finds her a fascinating conundrum, and possibly a relief.
Megan moves her hands to rest over her hips, trailing her fingers over his own as her body relaxes into his.
She’s never dreamt of finding the perfect man for many reasons, her disgust for the whole species number one on the list. But Megan thinks she’s found the impossible in this man, and knows she won’t let anyone take him away. She’ll tear the world apart to keep him by her side.
Meeting Don’s eyes in the mirror again, she realizes that Don would do the same for her.
What more could a girl ask for?
END