“You won’t be,” I tell her. “You don’t need to be afraid while we’re here. And we’re going to get you through it so that you leave here and know you don’t have to be afraid of anything ever again.”
Her breathing evens out—slow, shaky, but real. She curls closer until her legs rest across mine and her weight settles fully.
And for the first time since we pulled her off that ship, my heart stops clawing at my ribs.
A little while later, she lifts her head slightly. Her eyes—tired and raw—search mine.
“Did you…watch me this morning?” she asks softly. “On your screens?”
I don’t lie. “Of course.”
“And you’re not going to apologize for that, are you?”
“No.”
A beat.
“Good,” she whispers. “I like it when you watch.”
Something warm stirs under my ribs, quiet but fierce. “You do, huh?”
Her eyelids flutter closed. “You know I do. Stay with me a little longer?”
“Phoenix,” I say into her hair, “I’m not going anywhere.”
She falls asleep like that—held, safe, the ocean below us steady and constant.
I stay there long after her breath evens out and the sun dips below the horizon.
Because while Conrad wants to control the world, and Storm wants to protect it, and Maverick wants to fix it…
My job is here. More immediate.
I’ll hold her steady. Find the man who broke her peace, and end him.
And then I’ll make sure she rises again.
But for tonight…tonight, I start with the simplest of tasks.
I keep her warm. And I keep her breathing.
15
Phoenix
Tamsin’s officeis the only room in this house that doesn’t feel like Maverick had a hand in making it perfect for me. Maverick has been a surprisingly domestic god, always showing up with a cup of tea or a slice of toast, and knowing exactly which cozy throw to bring when I start feeling the evening’s chill.
I find myself imagining all those miles of muscles in an apron and nothing else, and it’s fuckinghot.
To distract myself fromthatlittle fantasy, I let my gaze continue wandering around Tamsin’s office. Instead of watchful corners, there are plants in old clay pots, and a knit throw tossed over the arm of the couch that looks like someone actually uses it. Tamsin sits on the floor, cross-legged, her back against her chair. The coffee table between us is low, wood scarred in a way that makes me want to put my palms flat on it and feel every groove.
I do, just to keep myself from tapping a hole through my jeans.
“So,” she says, like we’ve been doing this for years. “What’s true today?”
“I’m angry,” I say. “And I’m…not okay, but I’m not made of fucking glass. And I want—” Heat climbs my throat. “God, I hate this part.” I take my hands away from my neck and wind my fingers together, unable to focus until I get through it.
“Say the thing that feels like you’re not supposed to say it,” she says. “I promise I’ve heard worse from nice people.” Her eyes shift down until they lock on my fingers, clenched to keep still.
