They don’t leave.
They rearrange.
Atticus pulls me half into his lap to take the strain off my legs, one arm banded around my waist, the other splayed over my stomach. Storm lies along my other side, chest to my shoulder, hand resting over my ribs, counting breaths. Maverick sprawls at the foot of the bed, cheek on my thigh, fingers drawing lazy shapes on my skin. Conrad tucks himself in at my back, curling his body around mine, his arm a heavy, solid line across my middle.
We’re a tangle of damp skin, tangled limbs, and fucked-out breathing, the sheets twisted under us.
For a long moment, nobody speaks. The ceiling fan hums. The house settles. My heartbeat slowly climbs down from the rafters.
Then Maverick huffs a weak laugh. “So,” he says, voice shredded but pleased. “Bed and shower are yours now. Gonna have to build you an altar in both rooms, sweetheart.”
Atticus snorts. Storm’s mouth curves against my temple. Conrad presses a kiss into my wet hair like he’s sealing something.
I close my eyes, surrounded on all sides by their bodies, their warmth, the beat of four hearts that chose me, and let myself believe it:
I’m not a victim anymore.
I’m not a story that ends in a locked metal box filled with blood and hate.
I’m the center of this circle.
And every single one of my men just came apart for me—and with me.
“I’m not made of glass,” I remind them when I can speak in whole words.
“No, kitten, you’re not glass,” Atticus agrees. “You never were.”
“The key to the cage you’ve put me in is mine,” I say, because that’s the only rule that matters. “I stay because I want to, not because you’re forcing me.”
“Always,” Storm answers, promise edged in threat for anyone else.
“But we’ll never let you go,” Maverick says, soft and certain.
Conrad puts his mouth against my temple. “Test that as often as you like.”
I hum, mean and pleased. “I plan to be insufferable.”
“Good,” he says, and I feel it all the way down into my toes.
The house resets to a kind of quiet that isn’t vigil anymore. My body hums with aftermath in that sweet, heavy way that makes sleep possible. Four heartbeats settle near mine—different tempos, same song.
“Say it again,” I tell them, drunk on relief and power and the way they look at me when I’ve ruined them.
“Which part?” Maverick asks, already grinning.
“The part where you think I’m yours.”
“We don’t think,” Atticus says. “We know.”
“Mine,” Storm says.
“First and last,” Conrad says. “Only.”
I smile, sharp and soft. “Good boys.”
18
Conrad
