I step closer. Close enough to touch, still leaving air between us so she gets to decide.
“There’s no version of events where someone puts you in a box again and I’m not there,” I tell her. “There’s no world where a guy like Danner pushes you toward a bed and I let him live through it. Not while I’m breathing. Not while I’ve got these hands. Not while I’ve got these.”
I nod at the knife. “And I always have these.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I actually mean it or if this is just some comforting line.
I take a slow breath past the knot in my throat. Marsh air fills my lungs—salt, mud, and a faint curl of smoke from the grill back at the house. Real. Grounding.
“I can’t promise you the world’s safe,” I say. “It’s not. I can’t promise nobody’s ever gonna come for you again. People suck too much for that.” I hold her gaze, lock it. “But I can promise this. If they do, they go through me first. Every time. I’ll always protect you, Phoenix. I’ll always come for you.”
Her throat works. She looks at the knife again. Her hand lifts, hesitates, then closes around the hilt near my fingers. Her skin is warm against my knuckles.
“You can’t promise me always,” she whispers.
“I just did,” I say. “And I don’t break promises.”
The wind gusts, tugging her hair across her mouth. This time I don’t fight the urge. I reach up, slow, and tuck the strand behind her ear. My knuckles brush her cheek where Danner hit her. The bruise is almost gone, just a faint yellow ghost.
Rage sparks hot and clean. It fades under something softer when she leans into my touch—barely, but it’s enough.
Her hand slides off the knife and finds mine instead. She laces our fingers together and steps into my space until her chest is against my ribs and her forehead rests against my sternum.
For a second I forget how to breathe. Then my body remembers. My arms move on their own. I wrap them around her—one across her shoulders, one low at her back. I feel the line of her spine, the little hitch in her breathing, the way she melts and tenses at the same time.
“I hate that they got that close,” she says into my shirt. Her words vibrate against my chest. “I hate that I froze, even for a second.”
“You didn’t freeze,” I say. “You survived. You fought. You got yourself to that door. You hurt him. You did everything right. The part where we dragged you the rest of the way out?” I tighten my hold. “That’s on us. Not on you.”
Her fingers bunch in my shirt. “You came.”
“Every time,” I murmur into her hair. “You say my name, I’m already moving.”
We stand there while the marsh breathes around us. Water whispers through the grass. The buoy dings again, faint and steady. A heron calls, harsh and low. Behind us, the house glows soft through the trees, proof the world still has safe corners.
She tips her head back to look at me. Her eyes shine in the pale light. “What if I’m not always like this?” she asks. “What if one day I’m just…normal again?”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Then I’ll protect that too.”
She studies my face for a long beat. Then she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to mine. Soft. Careful. Not a claim. A question.
Heat flares through me. I kiss her back just as gently, holding everything else on a tight leash. This isn’t about taking. This is about letting her choose.
She pulls back first. Her breath skims warm over my lips.
“Okay,” she says. “Then I’m holding you to your stupid knife promise.”
“Good,” I say. “Tree’s a witness. Marsh, too. Whole damn island heard me.”
She laughs—small, shaky, stupidly beautiful. The sound slides into all the cracked places inside my chest and settles there.
I keep one arm around her as we turn back toward the house. Her hand stays in mine. The knife stays in the oak, buried deep, catching the thin wash of moonlight.
A mark in wood.
A vow in the dark.
17
