His chest rises and falls against my back, steady, protective even in sleep. One of his hands is still tangled with mine, our fingers interlaced so tightly I can’t tell where I end and he begins. My body aches, tender and sated, but it’s the good kind of ache — the kind that whispersyou lived.
I close my eyes and let the memory wash through me — his mouth on my throat, his laugh when I teased him, the way he whispered mine with such reverence it undid me. No shadows. No pretending. Just us.
For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel… free.
Then my father’s voice echoes in my head:You’ll destroy her.
My stomach knots. The spell cracks.
I slip my hand free, careful not to wake him. My feet find the floor, cool carpet shocking me back into reality. I gather my dress, crumpled on the chair, clutch it to my chest like it’s armor.
“Where are you going?” His voice is rough with sleep but clear.
I freeze. He’s awake, propped on an elbow, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp. His hair is a mess, his chest bare, and God help me, he’s never looked more like temptation.
“I was just—” I clutch the dress tighter. “Getting water.”
“You were sneaking,” he says softly. No accusation. Just truth.
I swallow. “Habit.”
He sits up fully, sheets falling low on his hips, and runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t sneak from me, Sammie. Not after last night. Not after you said yes.”
My throat tightens. “It’s not you I’m sneaking from.”
His eyes soften. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands, and crosses to me in three strides. My back hits the wall gently as he cages me in, his palms flat against it on either side of my shoulders.
“Then don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t sneak from him either. Let him see. Let the whole damn world see.”
My heart slams. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
He leans down, his forehead brushing mine. “I’m asking you to be as brave in the daylight as you were in the dark.”
Tears sting my eyes because he makes it sound so simple, like choosing him isn’t the most dangerous thing I’ll ever do.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“Me too,” he admits. His thumb brushes a tear before it falls. “But fear doesn’t mean stop. Fear means it matters.”
I sag against him, the fight bleeding out of me. His arms wrap around me again, strong and certain, and for the first time, I believe him.
“Stay with me,” he whispers into my hair. “We’ll face him together. All of them. No more hiding.”
I close my eyes, breathing him in, and nod.
Because last night we made love. And this morning, we chose not to undo it.
Chapter Eleven
Sammie
Morning finds us the way our bodies were left: twined and unafraid.
Warmth is the first thing, the kind that settles behind your ribs and persuades tight places to unclench. Weight is the second—his forearm draped heavy over my waist, the anchor I didn’t know I’d been bargaining for. I lie still and let the room name itself: hotel air with that hush that buys secrets by the hour; linen that smells faintly of citrus and heat; the quiet confidence of a door I watched him lock, once, twice, like an oath.
His breath drifts across the back of my neck in slow, practiced loops. Every fifth exhale grazes the small wisps of hair near my ear and my skin does that ridiculous full-body shiver that used to embarrass me and now feels like a private applause. I stay very still, not out of caution—out of awe. I expected the aftermath to feel like falling. It feels like arriving.
“Don’t move,” he mumbles, voice gravel and velvet, sleep-thick.
