Like she's already getting used to my stubbornness.
Like she's already deciding how to work around it.
That should worry me more than it does.
She turns to face me, and suddenly we're alone for the first time since the plane.
No prospects watching.
No parents hovering.
Just the two of us in this half-finished basement, surrounded by construction dust and the ghosts of conversations we haven't had yet.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For what you did in Dublin. For what you said to my father. For... all of it."
"It's my job."
"You keep saying that." She steps closer. "But I don't think it is. Not anymore."
My jaw tightens. "Dalla?—"
"You told me we'd finish our conversation. When I was safe. When you figured out who tried to take me." Her chin lifts. "I'm safe now. Aren't I?"
She's close enough that I can smell her perfume.
Close enough that I can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
Close enough that one step forward would put her in my arms.
I don't take that step.
"You should get some rest," I manage. "It's been a long day."
Disappointment flickers across her face, but she doesn't push. Just nods once and turns toward her room.
"Goodnight, RJ."
"Goodnight, Dalla."
She disappears through her door, and I'm left standing in the hallway, fists clenched at my sides, every nerve in my body screaming at me to follow her.
I don't.
Instead, I go to my own room, close the door, and sink onto the world's worst mattress.
The springs dig into my back immediately—right into the scar tissue from old bullet wounds that never healed quite right.
Fecking perfect.
I stare at the ceiling and think about her.
About the way she looked at me just now, like she was waiting for me to be brave enough to take what we both want.
About how she fits into this world so easily—MC princess, fashion designer, daughter of a man who threatened to feed me to alligators.
About how I'm supposed to protect her when I can't even protect myself from the way she makes me feel.
Sleep doesn't come.
