I would take his allies and turn them into ghosts.
I would poison every well he drank from, burn every bridge he thought would hold him.
And when he had nothing left, when he was small, powerless, and alone the way Nura had been in those final moments, when he finally understood what it meant to be beneath someone—then I would take his breath.
Slowly.
The way he'd taken hers in an instant, I would take his, over hours.
Over days if I could manage it.
I would make him feel every second draining away, make him beg for the mercy of that single bullet he'd given her.
I would watch his eyes go wide with the same terror she must have felt, hear him plead the way she never got the chance to.
I would break every bone that had held him upright.
Shatter the finger that had pulled that trigger.
Tear apart every piece of him that had dared to exist in a world where she could not.
And when it was finally done, when even the memory of his voice was ash scattered to wind, when his name became a curse that mothers whispered to frighten children, when the very ground where he'd stood had been salted and poisoned so nothing would ever grow there again, only then, maybe, would that smile let me rest.
And maybe. . .
just maybe. . .
I would smile too.
Chapter one
Aftercare
Nyomi
I once read in some glossy magazine that lying in your lover’s arms could help you live longer. The article claimed it was about oxytocin, lowered cortisol, and steady heartbeats syncing, all triggering a reduction in heart disease, fewer strokes, maybe even a slower march toward death itself.
At the time, I scoffed.
Not because I didn’t believe in the science.
It just felt like a cruel joke.
I didn’t have anyone’s arms to hold me through the night. There wasn’t a man out in the world that I trusted enough to carry the weight of my baggage and imperfections without dropping me.
Articles like that were for women who already had everything I didn’t—ringed fingers, shared mortgages, steady marriages, or at least boyfriends who texted back.
So many nights, my phone had been my only bed partner, glowing blue in the dark, showing nothing worth staying awake for.
Sometimes the ache of empty sheets swallowed me whole.
But now. . .now as I lay naked in Kenji’s muscular arms, with the furnace of his chest pressed to my back, his skin hot and damp against mine, not even air left between us, his breath sensually feathering the nape of my neck, and his palm heavy and warm on my bare thigh. . .I believed every damn word.
Hell, I felt immortal.
As if my life had stretched its claws into forever simply because this dangerous, impossible man refused to let me go.
My shoulder ached in a steady, obedient throb where a neat square of gauze had been taped over his bite. Edges smooth. No tugging. Kenji had cleaned and wrapped his mark.
