Finally, she blinks, then stands, water streaming off her. I hand her a towel, and she dries off, fast, then wraps it around herself like a shield.
We go back to the bedroom. She sits on the bed, towel still on. I hand her a shirt—mine, big enough to swallow her whole. She pulls it on, then crawls under the blankets.
I get in beside her, and she doesn’t flinch.
We lie there, face to face, nothing between us but air and the things we’re both too stubborn to say.
She touches my hand, turns it over, and traces the scars on my knuckles.
“These hurt?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Old pain.”
She nods, then runs her fingers over each one, soft, slow.
We listen to the wind for a while. It’s nice.
She closes her eyes, breathing steady. “If you tell anyone I was this soft, I’ll kill you,” she says, not even smiling.
“Promise,” I say.
She falls asleep like that, hand in mine, face unguarded.
I watch her, memorizing every line.
If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.
The world can burn. I have everything I want right here.
When we drift off, it’s with her next to me, her hand on my heart, and the knowledge that she’s mine.
Forever.
Chapter 17: Dahlia
WhenIwake,thesun is half-collapsed behind the tree line, bruising the window with yellow and gray. The world is caught between sleep and hunger. I let the light slip through my lashes, content for a moment to be nothing but at peace.
Bam’s bed is military tight, a single coarse blanket, and the pillow still holds the dent of my head from last night. The air tastes like dried sweat and sex, the room too hot for how little heat actually works in the cabin. I press my face deeper into his chest, let the slow rattle of his breathing shake me awake. His arm is tight around my waist, hand splayed at my hip like he’s holding down a vicious kitten.
For the first time in a year, maybe ever, my body doesn’t ache in the old way—no knots of anxiety, no acid burn of fear. The pain is different. Raw, yes, but clean. The deep-muscle soreness that comes from being wrecked and rebuilt in the span of a night.
I flex my hand and remember every place he left a bruise: the base of my throat, my ribs, the outside of my thigh. My pulse stutters. If I tilt my head back, I’ll see the rest of him—scarred and sleeping, face so slack it’s almost peaceful. There are more weapons in the room than there are pieces of furniture. Shotgun over the door, fighting knives arrayed above the bed like a fucked-up halo, brass knuckles on the nightstand next to a cracked phone.
Every part of him is a weapon. Even asleep.
I don’t want to move. If I don’t move, the world can’t find me. Papa’s calls, Leone’s lectures, the entire Bonaccorso bloodline—they’re all somewhere out there, planning how to get me back. But in here, the danger is muffled by the insulation of sweat and the certainty that, for now, I’m safe.
I think about the last time I slept this soundly. Maybe when I was ten, before my mother vanished and left me with a string of nannies who never lasted more than a season. Maybe never. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the ache in my legs and the iron weight of his hand on my hip, thumb tracing slow circles like he’s counting down to something.
I open my eyes. He’s awake, too.
“Creep,” I say, voice rusted from disuse.
He grunts. “You were grinding your teeth.”
I roll my eyes. “You could have just let me dream.”
“Not when you’re sleeping with me.” His mouth twists, a slanted imitation of a smile. “You destroyed me last night, maybe I should punish you for that.”
