Something cracks in my chest.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” I say, low and firm. “Do you understand me? If anyone touches you, they don’t walk away.”
Her breath catches. She whispers, “You can’t promise that.”
“I just did.”
For a beat, we stand there in the too-bright little kitchen, wrapped in this slow-growing tension that isn’t just fear or adrenaline.
It’s… more.
Deeper.
Hotter.
I realize my thumb is brushing small circles over her shoulder.
I should stop.
I don’t.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
My pulse spikes.
Nope.
Abort.
I step back, breaking contact like I’ve been burned. I turn to the cabinets. “We should eat. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out who’s running that network and how deep this shit goes.”
“Right.” Her voice is a little breathless. “Food. Sleep. Totally.”
I find a pot, fill it with water, light the gas stove. The burner flares blue.
We move around each other in close quarters, bodies bumping occasionally, each contact sending a jolt through me I pretend not to notice.
Her shoulder brushes my back.
Her fingers graze mine when I pass her a bowl.
Her laugh is softer now, but still there, like she’s trying to force things back to normal.
They aren’t.
They never will be again.
By the timewe’ve eaten and cleaned up, the sky outside is fully dark. The forest feels like a looming wall beyond the windows.
I kill most of the lights, leaving only the lamp by the couch.
Lark leans against the doorway, arms crossed, hair down now in loose waves. “So,” she says. “Sleeping arrangements.”
“You’re taking the bed.”
“And you’re taking the couch because… chivalry? Guilt? Fear of Gage?”
“Yes.”
