Page 42 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Blue

I t was the first night I could sit on the edge of the bed without Faron hovering like a worried mother hen.

Correction—he still hovered. Just… farther away. Watching me like I might shatter if the wind changed direction.

“I’m fine,” I said, wincing as I tugged one of his oversized hoodies over my head. It still smelled like him—cedar and stubbornness.

“You’re wearing my favorite hoodie,” he muttered, folding his arms. “That’s the only reason I’m not forcing you back into bed.”

I smirked. Then immediately regretted it. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts everywhere.”

He stepped forward and crouched in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my knees. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were storm-dark.

“You’ve been through hell.”

I looked at him, really looked, and felt the heaviness settle between us. “I’ve lived in hell for years, Faron. I just stopped pretending it was paradise.”

That cracked something in him. His expression shifted—just for a second—grief slipping through before he buried it again.

“I keep thinking…” My voice faltered. “That maybe I should’ve left. Moved somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. I could’ve taught first aid on a beach or worked in a vet clinic in some sleepy mountain town.”

“You wouldn’t have survived a quieter life,” he said. “You would’ve withered.”

I stared at my hands. “But maybe I wouldn’t be on a kill list.”

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But a lot more people would’ve died.”

My throat tightened. “You really think I made a difference?”

“I know you did.” His voice didn’t shake. “And you’re not done.”

Tears pricked, uninvited. “I don’t want to be alone in this anymore.”

“You’re not,” he said, rising. “Not now. Not ever again.”

He pulled me gently to my feet and into his arms. I winced, but I didn’t let go. His lips brushed the crown of my head.

“You’re it for me, Blue,” he said quietly. “There’s no halfway with you.”

And just like that—I let myself breathe again.