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My gaze drops to his hands. There’s a fresh split healing across his knuckle. I swallow hard, pulse flickering. He fought for me. Killed for me.
And standing there, still carrying the weight of everything, he looks like a man who’d do it all again. Without hesitation.
I sit up slowly, every inch of my body aching. My throat’s raw, my ribs throb, bruises I hadn’t even realized blossom dark and deep. But the strangest thing? I feel safe.
Every nerve in my body goes still the second I see him. My fear — the kind that should still be roaring — fades. The part of me still trembling isn’t the part afraid of dying. It’s the part that still wants to betouchedby him.
“What time is it?” I croak.
His voice is soft, rough like gravel, smooth like a secret.
“Too early for you to be up, princess.”
His words wrap around my heart like a warm blanket. I glance around — wood-paneled walls, a fireplace, a table with a handgun resting on it like a centerpiece. His bag on the floor. A coffee mug, half-drunk. And windows — no curtains, just glass, with trees stretching out in every direction.
No one would ever find us here. Not unless he wanted them to.
“Is it safe here?” I ask quietly.
His jaw tightens. “You’re safe with me no matter where you are, Maxine.”
“You killed them all.”
He doesn’t answer. And that silence — that heavy, raw silence — is the loudest confession he could ever give me.
I look down at my hands, still trembling slightly. But it’s not from fear. It’s from knowing this man — this lethal, beautiful, terrifying man — would burn the whole world to keep me safe.
“You don’t regret it,” I whisper.
“No,” he says, voice low. “I only regret not doing it sooner.”
I should be horrified. But I’m not.
He takes a step closer, slow, cautious, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
He kneels beside the bed, his breath uneven, his eyes lifting to meet mine. And those eyes — God, those eyes — they’re nothing but wreckage and devotion and guilt.
Something inside me splinters. I reach for him before I can stop myself, my fingers brushing his cheek, grazing over the stubble, the faint bruise beneath his eye.
I press my forehead to his. Our breaths tangle.
“You scared me,” I whisper.
“I scare myself,” he breathes.
“I hated you.”
“I hated me too.”
“I still want you.”
That breaks him. His hands lift, cradling my face with a gentleness that trembles.
He doesn’t kiss me. He just rests there — forehead to forehead — like this,this, is all he’s ever needed.
“I’ll always want you,” he murmurs, voicebarely there.
“I know,” I whisper. “I’ve always known.”