Because the truth, the terrifying, impossible truth, is this: I should be afraid.
But lying here, with his hand wrapped around mine and his world finally laid bare…
I don’t feel trapped.
I feel seen.
“Peyton…”
Before he can finish the doctor enters with a nurse at his side, smiling like this is simply another house call instead of the aftermath of violence. I remember him. Elias. The same doctor who came with my father for the paternity test. He asks me questions, shines a light in my eyes, inspects my stitched-up wounds. I try to focus, but Colter is still at my side, arms crossed, watchful and unyielding.
When the doctor asks him to step outside, Colter doesn’t move.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls.
Elias sighs but relents after I promise to focus. Eventually the machines are removed and the IV disconnected. Exhaustion seeps into my bones the moment they’re gone.
I must fall asleep, because the next time I open my eyes, the room is darker.
Muted light spills in from the bathroom.
Colter stands near the bed, a towel slung slow on his hips, his back to me as he speaks quietly into his phone. I catch fragments—plans, names, threats postponed.
“You can call her tomorrow and come visit in a few days when she can get out of bed. No sooner,” he orders before ending the call.
He turns and freezes when he sees I’m awake.
A slow smile curves his mouth as he walks toward me. His hair is damp, water still clinging to his skin.
“You’re up,” he says.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep again,” I say sheepishly. “I didn’t realize how tired I was.”
“You need food,” he replies. “But bathroom first.”
He helps me sit up, careful of my cut arm and wounded shoulder. If there is anything I’m thankful for, it is that Laurel knifed me on the same arm as Henry. I glance down and realize I’m wearing a silk pink nightgown that I’ve never seen before.
“I had Sutton pick up a few things,” he explains when he notices my confusion.
In the bathroom, I refuse an audience. When I’m done, he’s right there again, anchoring me.
“Can you help me with some new underwear?” I ask, heat blooming on my cheeks.
His mouth twitches. “Of course.”
He helps me sit, disappears briefly, then returns with a pair of matching pink panties. He crouches in front of me without hesitation, all control and focus, and I let him help because I’m too tired to argue—and because he won’t let go.
When I’m settled back against the pillows, he straightens and smooths the blankets over my legs.
“Rest,” he says. “I’ll have food brought in.”
I don’t fight him. Because after his confession. After he finally gave me the truth, something shifted.
And whether I fully understand everything or not, I know this much.
Colter Shaw is mine.
49
