Page 104 of Held-
“I'm going to kill him. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday, when all this legal shit is over, when no one's watching anymore...I'm going to make him pay for putting his hands on you.”
I feel a twisted sense of comfort in his promise—in knowing someone would go that far to protect me. I've never had that before.
“Brayden.” I shift my hand until it closes around his. “We can’t let our heads go there. Joe’s right. We beat them by outthinking them, not by reacting.”
He lifts my wrist to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against the bruises. “Being smart doesn't mean letting him get away with it,” he murmurs against my skin. “It just means being patient.
I should argue, should tell him that revenge isn't worth the cost. But the truth is, part of me wants Ethan to suffer too. Wants him to feel even a fraction of the fear and humiliation he's inflicted on me. What does that say about who I've become?
“I'm so tired,” I admit. “Tired of fighting him. Tired of being afraid.”
Brayden pulls me against his chest, and I go without hesitation, sinking into his warmth. His arms feel like the only safe place left in the world. I press my face to him, breathing in the familiar mix of leather and soap. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear quiets everything inside me—the doubts, the fear, the relentless what-ifs.
“Come on,” Brayden murmurs into my hair. “You need to rest before your appointment.”
I let him guide me toward the bedroom, too worn down to resist. My limbs feel heavy, every step an effort. The adrenaline that kept me standing through the interrogation, through Joe’s strategy session, through my father’s unexpected support… it’s gone now, leaving me drained and aching in every way that matters.
Brayden pulls back the covers and helps me sit on the edge of the bed. When he kneels to remove my shoes, the tenderness of the gesture makes my throat tight. This man, who radiatesdanger and violence to the rest of the world, treats me with a gentleness that still catches me off guard.
“I can undress myself,” I protest weakly, even as he's already sliding my socks off.
“I know you can, but you don't have to.”
I surrender, because I don’t have the strength to do anything else. Because, for once, it feels good to let someone take care of me.
Brayden helps me settle against the pillows, pulling the blanket up around me. The soft rustle of fabric and the faint trace of his cologne wrap around me, another layer of comfort I didn’t realize I needed. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, brushing a loose strand of hair from my forehead.
“Try to sleep,” he says quietly.
Something in his voice loosens the final knot in my chest. I reach out, my fingers resting lightly on his wrist. “Stay.”
He hesitates for only a heartbeat before kicking off his boots and sliding in beside me. His arm curves around my waist, steady and warm, drawing me close until my back settles against his chest. Heat radiates from him, easing the chill that has lived under my skin for days.
For the first time in what feels like forever, the silence isn’t suffocating. It’s gentle, filled with the rhythm of his breathing and the calm, steady pulse beneath my palm where our hands rest together.
My eyes grow heavy, thoughts blurring into a haze. Somewhere in the space between waking and sleep, I feel his lips brush the crown of my head.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs.
And I believe him.
The last thing I’m aware of is the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath me, the sound of his heartbeat lulling me under until the darkness takes me, safe in his arms.
BRAYDEN
I can't decidewhat pisses me off more—watching some stranger document the bruises on Cece's wrists, or folding my six-foot-two frame into her toy-sized Honda. Both make me want to put my fist through something. Preferably, Ethan Kincaid's face.
“You're quiet,” Cece says as we pull into the church parking lot. “What's going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing good,” I admit, shifting my knees away from the dashboard for the hundredth time. The temperature dropped overnight, too cold for my bike, which means I'm crammed intothis tin can on wheels. My knees practically touch my chin, and my shoulders are so hunched I'll need a chiropractor by noon.
She reaches over, her fingers brushing my forearm. Even that light touch sends electricity up my spine. “Yesterday was rough.”
“Rough doesn't begin to cover it.” The memory of watching her wrists being photographed, measured, documented—each bruise a testament to what that piece of shit did to her—makes my blood boil all over again. The doctor had been professional, but I'd wanted to tear the examination room apart with my bare hands.
I take a deep breath, trying to push down the rage that's been simmering just below the surface since Tony's. “But Joe's right. The more evidence we have, the better chance we have to get this thrown out.”
“And we need to be seen,” Cece says, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel as she parks the car.