I smile at that. He looks at Zeth with satisfaction in his eyes, clearly pleased that he made the choice to hire a bodyguard for me. He pats Zeth on the shoulder as well before heading back to his team.
I turn to Zeth and throw my arms around him. I don’t care who sees. I’m overwhelmed that he’s here, that he came for me, that he literally took bullets for me and saved my life.
Zeth cradles me in his arms.
“You’re okay,” he whispers against my hair. “You’re with me.”
“Yes,” I say, pressing my face to his wide chest. “I’m with you.”
As the chaos is slowly sorted out around us, agents calling out instructions and paramedics arriving to tend to the wounded, all I can do is cling to him. I realize now, standing here in his arms with my heart still racing and the smell of gunpowder in the air, that I may never let go.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Zeth
I stand outside Wren’s apartment door for ten minutes, staring at the bouquet of red roses in my hand like they might suddenly transform into something less ridiculous. The hallway is quiet except for the hum of someone’s television through a nearby wall, and I shift my weight from foot to foot, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. The roses seem too small now that I’m looking at them, or maybe they’re too cliché and uninspired. Does Wren even like flowers? I don’t know. But then I think all women like flowers, don’t they? And that just makes it worse because, of course, I’d go with the most predictable choice possible.
I’m overthinking this. I know I’m overthinking this, but I can’t stop myself.
I’m a naked symbiote with charcoal skin standing in a human apartment building with a bouquet of roses, about to knock on a woman’s door. The absurdity is overwhelming enough that I almost turn around and leave, but I know if I walk away now, I’ll just come back in five minutes.
The past week has been hell without her. Between the FBI debriefings, the hours of interrogation and the press conferences that seemed to go on forever, I barely saw Wren at all. She was lost in bureaucracy, too busy for anything more than quick text messages.
My boss at Monster Security Agency grilled me for hours too, wanting every detail of the mission, and by the time I was done talking to everyone who wanted a piece of the story, Wren and I had barely exchanged more than a few words.
The mission is over now. Technically, my job as her bodyguard is done.
I don’t even know her real name.
I don’t know who she is when she’s not working, I don’t know what she does on lazy Sunday mornings, or what kind of music she listens to. We had sex, we were merged for weeks, I know the rhythm of her heartbeat, but I don’t actually know her. And standing here with these stupid roses, I wonder if she’ll even want me to know her, or if what we had was just something that happened during the job because we both needed stress relief.
Can I really look her in the eye and ask for more?
I know I can’t live without her. The past week proved that much. Every moment away from her felt wrong, like a vital part of myself was missing, and I’ve never felt that way about anyone before. But knowing I want her and having the courage to ask for her are two very different things.
I almost walk away.
No, I’m stronger than this.
I knock.
The door opens, and every rehearsed word I planned to say evaporates from my mind.
Wren stands in the doorway wearing a sundress, the hem barely touching her knee, and I forget how to form sentences. Her red hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and her skin has a faint flush to it. She looks young and relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before, like all the stress and danger of the past weeks has finally melted away and left someone softer underneath. This is Wren without the weight of the mission crushing down on her shoulders, Wren when she can think about something other than staying alive and maintaining her cover, and the sight of her like this disarms me.
I open my mouth to say something and nothing comes out. I’m convinced I look utterly stupid standing here with my mouth hanging open.
Wren laughs and reaches out to pull me inside. She squeals when she sees the roses and takes them from me, burying hernose in the petals with a smile that makes all my earlier doubts seem ridiculous.
I still can’t speak. I just stand there, in her entryway, and stare at her like she’s some kind of miracle I don’t quite believe in.
“You’re late,” she says, looking up at me with those sharp blue eyes. “What happened? Couldn’t find the place?”
“I... um... I...” The words tangle in my throat and refuse to come out in any coherent order.
She waves me into the living room.
“Nevermind. I’ll find a vase for these. Make yourself comfortable.”
