Instead, I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face. My fingers have a fucking mind of their own. I graze her cheek just barely, just enough to feel warm skin and the sharp intake of her breath.
"You will," I say. "Survive, I mean. I'll make sure of it."
"Why do you care?" The question's barely a whisper, and I swear I notice her pupils dilating.
Do I affect her?
"Because someone should. And because—" I stop, trying to find words for something I don't fully understand myself. "Because when I look at you, I see the fight I walked away from. The one I should have finished. And maybe keeping you alive is how I finally do."
She doesn't move away or tell me I'm wrong or that I'm making this about me instead of her. Instead, she leans into my touch, just slightly, just enough to matter.
"Blake Delano," she murmurs. "Reluctant hero with a martyr complex. This should be interesting."
"I'm not a hero."
"Good." Her lips curve. "I don't want to be rescued. I want someone to teach me how to fight just as dirty as they do. If I’m going to claim my spot in this town, I want to be ready to battle for it.”
Damn, this woman is sexy as fuck.
And man, that’s going to be a problem.
"I can do that."
"Then we have a deal."
She offers her hand, and I take it. Hold it. Feel the warmth of her skin and the steady pulse at her wrist and the particular electricity that comes from touching someone who might destroy you and deciding you don't care.
Outside, Wintervale celebrates the height of the Christmas season. Inside, we shake hands on a war neither of us is sure we can win.
But we'll fight anyway.
Because that's what survivors do.
We fight. We bleed. We refuse to break.
And sometimes, if we're lucky, we find someone willing to fight beside us.
I'm starting to think I might be that lucky.
Or that damned.
With Peyton Quinn, it's probably a bit of both.
Chapter 4
Peyton
Blake's apartment is nothing like I expected. I was prepared for the typical bad-boy bachelor aesthetic, which usually includes minimal furniture, an empty fridge, and the kind of impersonal space that says I sleep here, but I don't live here.
What I find instead is exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with everything from philosophy to urban fiction, and a kitchen that actually looks used.
There's a worn leather chair by the window, seemingly positioned to catch morning light. A coffee maker that's clearly seen better days. And there are plants, actual living plants, on the windowsill that someone's been watering. Maybe there’s a woman in his life?
"You read," I say, running my fingers along paperback book spines.
"Surprised?" Blake shrugs out of his jacket, and I try not to notice the way his defined shoulders move under the dress shirt, the holster he's unbuckling like it's as routine as loosening a tie.
"Most men who break wrists at galas don't own first editions of Voltaire and a hardback copy of The Color Of Water.”
