But she’s mine. She’s fucking mine.
And I’m not letting her walk.
I don’t let her carry a single thing either.
I scoop her into my arms as soon as we step outside the car.
She protests weakly, but when I growl her name, she quiets. She knows this isn’t about dominance or show. It’s about need. I need to take care of her.
I need to be the one who holds her together so she can fall apart if she needs to. Or maybe because I’ll fall apart without her.
The latter. Definitely the latter.
We make it to the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
I carry her like she’s something holy—and she is.
I lay her down on the bed, the massive one I chose because nothing less felt worthy of her.
Warm blankets, sheets softer than anything else in this cold world.
A nest I built with my hands, with my money, with my fucking heart.
The glow from the fireplace flickers across her skin, painting her in porcelain and gold.
“Are we home now?” she whispers, voice small but anchored in steel—because she never breaks, even when she should. Even when she’s hurting.
I take her hand gently, lift her bruised knuckles to my lips.
“Home and safe,” I tell her. “Or as safe as I can possibly make it.”
“Good,” she breathes.
Her eyes drift closed, lashes trembling. I swallow hard and force myself to move slowly, carefully.
I remove her shoes, then her socks, each touch reverent. I tuck her beneath the bedspread like she’s made of something rare and fragile and irreplaceable.
I should shower. I should check security. I should call Michail, clean the blood off my hands, burn the shirt I’m wearing.
I do none of it.
I crawl in beside her and pull her into my arms, letting the heat of her body ease the animal inside me inch by inch.
I bury my face in her hair and inhale the faint lingering scent of her shampoo beneath the iron tang of stress and fear.
And for the first time since I kicked down those fucking doors, I thank God—out loud, silently, desperately—that she’s alive, that she’s here, that she’s still mine.
Dreams don’t haunt me.
Not anymore.
Not after all the real nightmares I’ve already actually lived during the past twenty-four hours.
But still, I wake before dawn, some instinct tearing me out of sleep the second I hear movement downstairs.
I slip out of bed with care, with reluctance. I tuck the blankets around her so the cold can’t reach her.
