"Fuck Sophia, was that too much?" He's still panting, fighting with his composure, but I can see the worry in his eyes. "Did I hurt you?"
"Only in the best way," I manage breathlessly. "That was just what I needed."
He strokes a few stray hairs off my face and kisses my forehead, lighter than air. "You've been throughso much," he murmurs, his thumb brushes at the bite he left on my neck. "I wasn't sure if you could…"
I take his hand and move it to my chest, letting him feel my heart. "Don't you get it? This is what I wanted—what I needed. I feel more alive right now than I have in years. You don't have to treat me like glass."
He laughs at that, shaky but genuine, and pulls me tighter into his arms. "I love you wild. I love it when you fight back. When you want."
"Then you’re in luck," I say, nestling into the crook of his body. My whole everything feels molten and fluttery, but at peace in a way I’ve never known. "Because if you ever try to cage me, I’ll just claw my way out."
He kisses my nose, my eyelids, the corner of my jaw. "Good. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t."
We lie tangled together while the stars slide overhead and the woodland makes its noises around us. Warm and safe, not in a fortress or a mansion, just here, surrounded by smoke and grass and the ghosts of our old selves.
He runs his fingers over my scars, the faded lattice from before, not with curiosity, but reverence. "What are you thinking?" he asks.
I stare up through the mesh of leaves, watching the faint clouds drifting in the navy sweep of sky. "About how I don’t want to let go of this. Any of it. Even the crazy. Even this version of me that used to scare myself."
His hand rests at my hip, thumb drawing endless little circles. "Then don’t. Keep all of it. Be everything you are."
I turn to face him. The only man who lets me be all the things—soft, hard, vicious, tender—without asking me to apologize. "You’re not afraid of what I might become?"
His eyes search me, something gentle blooming in them that I have never seen before. "I’m only afraid of losing you. The rest…" He grins, the wolfish edge to his mouth matching the teeth marks on my thigh. "The rest turns me on."
We both laugh then, all the tension from before turned into something bright and sharp and living. I rub at the raw spot on my neck, linger on the places he marked me, and wonder if one day they’ll all blend together, so I’ll never be able to tell where I end and he begins.
"Can I tell you a secret?" I ask.
"Always."
"For the longest time, all I wanted was to go back. Back to before the wedding. Before the mansion. Before him." My voice wavers. "Before you."
I pause, "But not anymore. We're where we were supposed to be all along, and I'm at peace with it. All of it. If this is the only waywecan have worked, then I'm not just okay with it, I'd do it all again. And again."
"Bella mia," his eyes turn liquid, burn into me,"You talk like peace is a gift you got for free." Hebrushes his thumb across my cheek. "But I know what it cost you to get here. You bled for it. You broke for it." He leans in, and his forehead rests against mine. "You think I love you because you're soft? No. I love you because you're steel wrapped in velvet. Because no matter how many times they tried to bury you, you came back stronger. I'd burn the world for you, yes. But that’s the easy part." His voice drops to a vow. "I’d walk through fire with you. I’d carry your rage, your scars, your silence. I’d take your pain and make it mine—every last fucking piece—because I’d rather bleed beside you than breathe without you."
That weekend…
Daylight in Vegas feels like neon that forgot to go to sleep. The air smells like warm sugar and concrete, perfume and hot metal. We spill onto the Strip in a loose ribbon—me, Gigi, Scarlet, Violet, Cat, Izzy—trailed by our shadow details. Two in front, two behind—a compromise we wrung from our men—and Lexy floating left like a second spine, hand never far from her waistband, eyes always working.
We pretend to be normal. Sunglasses. Shopping bags. Laughter that sounds like it belongs to girls who don’t have enemies. Violet’s still a little pale, but stubborn; she squeezes my hand whenever we stop and claims she’s fine. Cat is running point on stores. “In. Out. Nobody gets kidnapped by sequins,”—and Scarlet keeps pointing out everything ridiculous with a commentator’s bite that makes Izzy snort-laugh behind her hand. Gigi, all legsand sunglasses, is halfway into a rant about the tragedy of faux vintage when?—
“Cammie,” I say.
The word leaves me in a breath. Gigi startles. “What? What is it?”
I’ve stopped dead. The crowd flows around us, annoyed. Across the sun-flash of roofs and chrome, I see the slope of a shoulder I know like my own. Dark brown hair lifted by the desert breeze. A dress in a color Cammie always claimed as hers, a mix between peach and coral. She’s turned away from me, hand on the crook of a man’s arm.
He’s tall. Too tall to miss. Tailored suit even in the heat, face I can’t see, and his grip on her elbow is wrong—possessive, not protective. A hook. He leans down. She tips her chin the way she does when she’s pretending she isn’t afraid.
I’m already moving.
“Soph—hey!” Violet’s voice. Then everyone’s heels find the same rhythm; we’re a flock with a purpose. Our guards close ranks, the front two widening their shoulders, the back two rushing to seal the gap we leave.
“Cammie!” I call, loud enough to scrape my throat.
The woman turns.
