"You saved mine," I tell her. "And not just tonight, Sloane. You saved me from my past, from a future alone…"
She cries harder, and I let her. There's nothing I can say that will make this easier, no words that will erase what happened. She needs to grieve the person she thought she was, the line shenever thought she'd cross. Sloane's going to carry this with her for the rest of her life.
But she doesn't have to carry it alone.
"We'll talk about it when you're ready," I say softly, "not before. You don’t owe anyone anything, alright?"
Her head tucks under my chin and I hear her whisper, "You're not mad at me?"
"No, baby." I brush the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. "You're the strongest person I've ever met. You faced down the man who wanted to destroy you, and you didn't choke."
Her breath hitches. "I don't like it…"
"I know… but it'll pass, and I'll still be here, being proud of you."
She leans into me again, and I hold her as the fire burns low. Her sobs gradually quiet and her breathing evens out. She's not asleep, but she's calmer now, the worst of the shock passing.
"I love you," I say into the quiet. "I love you, and I'm proud of you, and I'm not going anywhere."
"I love you too," she whispers.
I press my eyes closed and feel my stomach rumbling, but making sure Sloane feels anchored is more important than putting meat in my belly.
30
SLOANE
Morning comes in a haze of pain and a tangle of Dane's limbs with mine. My ribs ache where the bullet struck the vest and my shoulder throbs from where that asshole wrenched my arm behind my back. But worse than the physical pain is the hollow feeling in my chest. Everything feels dulled, like life is on mute and wrapped in bubble wrap.
Dane lies beside me snoring softly, but I can't get the image of Cal Maddox's wide eyes out of my head as he fell forward and face planted into the bloody snow. The thought circles through my mind on repeat, even while I'm awake, after a sleepless night of seeing it over and over every time I tried to doze off.
The numbness spreads deeper, and I realize I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about what happened. Guilt, horror, and relief all exist somewhere beneath the surface, but I can't reach them. They're buried under layers of shock and exhaustion and I'm just waiting to start feeling again. I have a feeling when I do, it won't be pretty, but feeling the horror of it is better than feeling this numb.
Dane stirs beside me. His arm tightens around my waist for a moment before he wakes fully. He shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at me.
"Hey," he grumbles, voice rough with sleep. "You okay?"
I don't know how to answer that. I'm alive and other than bruises, I'm not physically hurting. But okay feels like a stretch.
"I don't know," I say.
He brushes a strand of hair away from my face with gentle hands. "Do you need anything?"
For a man who's lived through this more than once, the offer is so simple and ordinary, it almost breaks through the numbness. I consider it for a moment but food doesn't appeal to me. Sleep feels impossible now that I'm fully awake, but coffee might at least wake up the neurons in my brain that don't want to function.
"Coffee," I say. "I could use coffee."
"I'll make some." He leans down and kisses my forehead, then slides out of bed. He pulls on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then heads for the door. "I'll be right back."
He disappears into the main room, and I'm alone with my thoughts again. I sit up slowly, wincing as my ribs protest. The vest might have saved my life, but I'm going to be bruised for weeks. No one told me how bad it hurts to get hit by a bullet.
The vest itself lies crumpled on the floor beside the bed where Dane left it last night when he brought me to bed. I lean over and pick it up and drag the heavy thing onto the bed to examine it. There's a visible dent in the center where the bullet struck, andwhen I run my fingers over it, I can feel the slug embedded in the material.
I try to dig it out with my fingernails, but the bullet is lodged too deeply. My nail breaks as I dig into the shell, hoping to dislodge the chunk of lead that almost ended me, and I feel frustration welling up inside me. Finally, I can feel something, but it's not what I want to feel. I want the bullet out. I want to hold it in my hand and look at it and understand how close I came to dying.
It might just be the thing that shakes me out of this stupor, and dammit if I'm not failing at something so simple.
Footsteps approach, and Dane returns carrying two mugs of coffee. He stops in the doorway when he sees what I'm doing.
