Too close.
I feel her breath on my arm when she whispers, “Thank you.”
I swallow hard.
She leaves the room, footsteps soft, hesitant. I wait until I hear her door shut before letting out a breath I’ve been holding since the moment she walked in shaken and terrified. Then I pull out my phone. And dial a number I never planned to use again.
When the voice on the other end answers, cold and authoritative, I don’t waste time.
“It’s Caden West,” I say. “I need a full background sweep. A man named Damian Kane.”
A pause. “Relationship?”
“He threatened someone under my protection.”
Another pause—longer this time. “Understood. You want the quiet package?”
“Yes.” My voice drops, steel replacing the earlier softness. “And I want it fast.”
“Done.”
I end the call and stare at the shimmer of moonlight against the water for a long moment. No one is going to hurt her again.
Not while she’s mine to protect.
Not ever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KAMIYAH
Iwake slowly.
For a few seconds I don’t recognize the ceiling above me—the soft gray paint, the recessed lighting, the faint hum of the waves crashing against the shore beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Then memory settles in, heavy and bittersweet.
Caden’s penthouse.
Safety. Warmth. And everything I can’t let myself want.
I sit up carefully, the oversized T-shirt slipping down one shoulder. His shirt. I borrowed it last night. The fabric smells like detergent and something faintly masculine and grounding. I tell myself that’s the only reason I chose it. That it had nothing to do with how it felt to be wrapped in something of his.
A lie. But a comforting one.
The apartment is quiet when I step into the hallway. Early morning light spills through the massive windows, painting everything a soft gold. It’s peaceful. Too peaceful. As if last night’s fear never happened.
My stomach growls, reminding me I barely ate yesterday. And cooking—being useful—sounds better than sitting here spiraling into thoughts of Caden’s arms around me, his voicerough with concern, the way he held me like he’d never stopped caring.
I make my way to the kitchen, trying not to think about how familiar the space feels. Four years ago we’d sometimes meet in the hospital’s family kitchenette at ungodly hours, reheating terrible coffee and splitting stale pastries because neither of us could sleep. Back then, grief and hope braided us together.
Now I’m pretending I don’t still feel those threads tugging.
I reach into the fridge and pull out eggs, spinach, and tomatoes. Something simple. Something that won’t betray that I’m shaking slightly.
As the skillet warms, I tie my hair into a messy knot, tug Caden’s shirt over one shoulder, and try—really try—to focus on the food.
He appears behind me before I hear him.
Bare feet. Sweatpants. Shirtless.
