I look down. There’s a cut on my forearm, didn’t even feel it. The blood is slow, dark. I hold it up and shrug. “Pass the glue.”
She tosses the surgical glue and I squeeze it into the cut. Most of me is covered in bruises and cuts, but none of it matters.She’ssafe.
I go to the window. The forest is silent, black. Smoke from the campus drifts on the air, but no one is coming.
“Are you okay?” Dahlia says quietly as she comes to stand beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm before she grabs my hand.
“I’ll survive.”
We watch the woods together, waiting for the next enemy, or for sunrise, whichever comes first.
The lamps burn down to nothing, and the cold seeps in as night smothers the cabin. Rhett sits by Colton’s side, wiping his brow, checking the pulse every five minutes, waiting for him to wake. Isolde hunches at the table, hands trembling just enough to clatter the spoon in her mug. Julian is pacing, boots leaving tracks of gore on the floor.
I refuse to move. I don’t trust that we’re safe. The gun is heavy on my hip, the ache in my arms and shoulder a constant, slow drum. Outside, the wind howls, tossing ice off the eaves and rattling the shutters. I watch for shapes in the dark, for the glint of glass or the pale shock of a face.
Dahlia doesn’t move either, leaning against me, her head on my shoulder, close enough to hear my breath. We are alone in the space between threat and safety, and the weight of what I want to do is enough to paralyze me.
I want to claim her.
Colton coughs, the sound wet and broken. Rhett leans in, murmurs something, then glances up at me.
“He’s stable. Probably out until morning.”
I nod, but don’t turn from the window.
Dahlia says, “It’s over?”
“Nothing’s over,” I say. “But we’re ahead, for once.”
She moves closer, her shoulder bumping my arm. She’s cleaned the blood off her hands, but her nails are still rimmed in rust. There’s a streak of red in her hair, her PJ’s are torn to shit and her feet look bad, but she doesn’t complain, doesn’t whine.
“It’s quiet,” she whispers.
I can feel her strength in the way she holds herself. I turn to her. In the dark, her eyes catch the lamp and turn to bronze.
I raise my hand to her face. She flinches, just a flicker, then holds still as I touch her cheek. My fingers are thick and clumsy,always better at breaking things than handling them, but she leans into the contact.
I need to claim her. I want to brand every inch, leave her marked and ruined and utterly mine. I want to throw her down and fuck her until she can’t remember her own name.
But I don’t.
I pull my hand back, fist clenched at my side.
Dahlia watches, waiting.
I speak, voice low. “I want to own you, Dahlia. Make you mine. But it’s your choice. No more games.”
She blinks, slow. There’s a spark of fear, but more than that, it’s hunger.
I step back, give her the space. The wind howls. Colton coughs again. Isolde mutters in her sleep, head on the table. Julian hums under his breath, tuneless and sharp.
Dahlia closes the gap. She puts her hand on my chest, right over one of my tattoos, and presses until I feel my own heart.
“Get a room you two.” Julian mutters before stomping off and returning a few minutes later. “And change your shitty clothes. Dahlia is going to catch a cold.”
He tosses us some clothes and goes back to his corner, just sitting, staring. Waiting, I suppose, for something to happen. For something to break.
“Well?” I ask, watching as she stands there looking every bit a little girl instead of a mafia princess.
