Page 86

But silence?

Silence is a blade between his ribs.

He can deal with knives and bullets and blood, but he can’t stomach her silence.

Still, it won’t last.

Her rage burns hot and fast—wildfire that consumes everything in its path. But fire doesn’t last forever. Not even hers. It’ll smolder. It’ll shrink down to embers. And then it’ll shift. It always does. Because that’s what makes her dangerous.

Rule left after that to take care of his own errands, but really I think he needed a moment's distance.

So, I wait until she’s asleep before I go in.

It’s almost a ritual now—the way I sit in this armchair, silent, breathing her in from across the room. The way I watch the lines of her body beneath the sheets. The way I catalogue the small things. The twitch in her thigh. The way she curls her fingers near her face. The slow, even rhythm of her breath.

I watch her like she’s something sacred.

Like she’s mine.

Because she is.

Her lips are parted. Her lashes tremble with whatever images dance behind her eyes. I wonder if she dreams of us. I hope she does. I hope she wakes up soaked in it, dazed and desperate, craving what only we can give.

She looks fragile like this.

She isn’t. But fuck, it’s a good illusion.

I want to touch her. I want to crawl into that bed and stretch her open again, press my mouth to the bruises we left and make her cry out my name in a tone that isn’t rage but surrender.

The truce between her and Rule is already ash. The moment he told her who he was—Kingston Reyes—the fragile line holding her tolerance in place snapped. I knew it would. I heard when she screamed like she wanted to rip the Reyes name straight out of his throat. And I get it. I do. That rage? That explosion? It was beautiful.

And I can’t even blame her for it. I saw it coming the second Rule started slipping deeper into his obsession for her. But I understand why he did it.

Because I couldn’t have held that secret much longer either.

But it doesn’t bode well.

Not for when she finds out the rest.

I’ve spent years watching her through screens, through stolen surveillance, through audio files that I played on repeat until I could recite every inflection in her voice like a psalm. I memorized the rhythm of her footsteps before I ever heard them in person. I know her better than she knows herself.

And now?

Now she’s here. Warm. Breathing. Close enough to touch.

I don’t want to go back to distance. I don’t want to return to cold monitors and silent worship. I want this. Her. All of it.

The part of me that still pretends to be a good man—that thin layer of restraint I only wear when I have to—it’s screaming at me to go slow. To give her time. Space. A chance to adjust.

But the rest of me?

The part that’s been starved for her?

That part wants todevourher.

How will she react when she finds out the rest? When she learns how deep this goes? When she finally understands who I am underneath the mask… and how long I’ve loved her?

Because make no mistake.