Page 107 of Until Joy

“Graham will want to handle it.” I was already moving toward the door. “I'll call you later.”

I practically ran to Graham's truck, climbing into the passenger seat with relief. The familiar scent of leather and motor oil felt like safety.

“You okay?” Graham's eyes searched my face. “You look shaken.”

“Someone left rotten eggs in the clinic trash. And another note.”

Graham's expression turned thunderous. “What did it say?”

“That I should leave you. That it was my last warning.”

“Motherfucker.” Graham pulled out his phone. “I'm calling Jax.”

The drive home passed in a blur of phone calls and tense planning. By the time we reached Graham's house, I felt emotionally drained. All I wanted was to curl up in his arms and pretend the world outside didn't exist.

We went through our evening routine like zombies. Dinner from takeout containers. A shower together where we barely spoke. Graham checked and double-checked the locks on every door and window while I got ready for bed.

By eleven-thirty, we were both exhausted. I fell asleep almost immediately, wrapped in Graham's arms, feeling safer than I had all day.

The sound that woke me wasn't human. It was mechanical.

Urgent.

Wrong.

Sirens.

Multiple sirens, growing closer and louder until they seemed to be right outside our window.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. The red and blue lights strobing through the blinds painted the bedroom in hellish colors.

“What the hell?” Graham was already moving, rolling out of bed and reaching for his jeans.

“This is the police!” A voice boomed through a megaphone, so loud it rattled the windows. “The house is surrounded! Come out with your hands visible!”

“Graham?” My voice came out as a squeak.

“It's okay.” But he didn't look okay. He looked furious and dangerous. “Someone called in a false report. Stay calm.”

“Put your weapons down and exit the building immediately!”

The front door splintered.

Heavy boots thundered through the house.

“CLEAR!”

“BEDROOM!”

“TWO OCCUPANTS!”

Graham's hands moved to his phone, fingers flying over the screen even as armed figures in tactical gear burst through our bedroom door.

“Hands where we can see them! Now!”

I threw my hands up, my whole body shaking. Graham moved slowly, deliberately, his phone still clutched in one hand.

“Nico, it's Graham,” he said into the phone, his voice deadly calm despite the assault rifles pointed at us. “I need you at my address right now. Someone SWATed us.”