“Good,” she breathes.
I pull my hand back, studying her face.
“Do you want to be alone?” I ask, even though the thought of leaving her makes my chest seize.
“No,” she says immediately, then seems surprised by her own answer.
“Good,” I murmur.
Because I’m not going anywhere.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Twenty-One
Holley
I wake to sunlight on my face.
Warm. Soft. Clean.
For a disorienting second, I don’t know where I am. The room is unfamiliar—dark walls, the faint smell of leather and motor oil, a worn dresser, boots lined neatly near the door.
Then the weight of an arm draped over my waist pulls me back to reality.
Tony.
His breath brushes the back of my neck, steady and grounding. His chest rises and falls against my spine in a slow rhythm that calms something deep inside me.
We slept like this all night.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember his arms around me, his quiet voice telling me I was safe, the hum of the compound outside like a protective lullaby. But the rest is blank. My mind must have shut down, exhausted.
Carefully—slowly—I turn just enough to look at him.
He’s still asleep.
And he looks younger, somehow. Or maybe vulnerable. His brows aren’t pulled tight like usual, and without the tension he wears when he’s awake, he looks softer. More human. Less like the force of nature the world sees.
My throat tightens.
I almost lost him.
He almost lost me.
And that truth sits heavy on the pillow between us.
His eyes open suddenly—sharp, alert, focused. He takes in the room, then me, and relaxes visibly.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gravelly.
I swallow. “Hi.”
He brushes hair from my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “How’re you feeling?”
“Sore,” I admit. “But alive.”
