Page 78 of Held-

“He’d be dead. Sounds like a win to me.”

“Brayden.” She cups my face in both hands, firm but tender, anchoring me. “I don’t need you to kill for me. I need youhere.With me.”

I close my eyes and lean into her touch. Her hands are soft, warm—a lifeline. I want to believe her. Want to let it go. But the image of Ethan’s hands on her plays again behind my lids, relentless and vivid.

“He was going to hurt you,” I say hoarsely. “And he would’ve done worse if I hadn’t shown up.”

“But youdidshow up.” Her thumbs move in slow strokes along my cheekbones. Only then do I notice how tightly my jaw is clenched, the ache settling into bone.

“You protected me.”

“Not enough. Not soon enough.”

I open my eyes to find her watching me, steady and shining with unshed tears. Silent proof that she’s still here, still shaken, still strong.

“If I’d been there a minute later?—”

“But you weren't.”

I pull away from her touch, standing up so abruptly that she flinches. The movement sends another spike of fury through me. She shouldn’t be flinching. Not around me. Never around me.

“I need a minute,” I mutter, striding into the kitchen. I brace both hands on the counter, fighting to breathe through the redhaze tightening my vision. My heart slams against my ribs, each beat sending another rush of fury through my system.

I hear her soft footsteps behind me but don’t turn. I can’t. Not with my hands still shaking. Not with the storm in my head refusing to settle.

“Brayden,” she says quietly. “Talk to me.”

“You don’t want to know what’s in my head right now.”

“I do.” Her hand lands between my shoulder blades, barely a touch, but enough to ground me for half a second.

“I’m thinking about finding him.” The words scrape out of me before I can stop them.

“Cornering him somewhere no one can interfere. Making sure he finally understands fear. Making sure he pays for what he did to you.”

The confession hangs there—raw, unfiltered, dangerous—and once it’s out, there’s no pulling it back.

She doesn't pull away. Doesn't look at me with disgust or fear. Her hand stays steady against my back.

“And then what?” she asks softly.

“Then I'd make him apologize to you. Make him crawl on his knees and beg for forgiveness before I finish him.”

“You don't mean that.”

I turn to face her, meeting her eyes so she can see exactly how serious I am. “I do mean it. Every fucking word.”

She studies my face, her expression unreadable. Then she reaches for my hand, the one clenched in a white-knuckled fist on the counter. Her fingers slide over mine, gentle but insistent, until I let her pry them open.

Her touch is too gentle for the monster I'm becoming. I want to pull away, to keep her at a distance from everything boiling inside me, but I'm too fucking selfish. I need her hand in mine, need her touch.

“I wish I could tell you I don't mean it. That I'm just angry and saying shit I don't mean. But I can't lie to you, Cece. Not about this.”

She intertwines her fingers with mine, and I watch her smaller hand vanish in my grasp. The contrast hits hard—her soft skin against my rough palm, her healing wrist beside my scarred knuckles. Everything about her feels too good, too untouched by the world I come from.

“I understand wanting to hurt him,” she says quietly. “Believe me, I do. But revenge isn’t worth losing yourself over.”

I laugh, the sound rough even to my own ears. “Losing myself? Princess, thisisme. The violence, the fury. It isn’t some extra part I can switch off. It’s woven into who I am.”