And that’s the worst part.
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the heavy, suffocating kind I grew up with, but a softer silence, broken only by the whisper of wind rattling against the windows.
The second thing I notice is him.
Colter.
He’s stretched out beside me in the wide bed I hadn’t realized was his until he carried me here last night. Sheets tangled low around his hips, chest bare. There is a kind of stillness in him that isn’t still at all.
One arm is flung over his head, the other draped across my waist like he can’t let go even in sleep. His hand is heavy,possessive, fingers splayed across my stomach as though he’s reminding me that I’m his, even in sleep.
And God help me, it doesn’t feel like a lie.
My thighs ache when I shift, a deep, insistent throb that’s as much memory as it is soreness. The granite counter flashes in my mind—my knees burning, his hand fisted in my hair, the way he split me open like he needed to carve himself into me. I bite my lip, heat curling through my gut before shame can catch up.
I shouldn’t have let it happen.
I definitely shouldn’t be lying here still in his bed, watching the sun stain the wooden beams overhead with gold.
But I can’t move. Not yet.
“It’s still early,” Colter whispers, curling his large body around mine, yanking me further into his possessive embrace. “Go back to sleep.”
Sleep normally doesn’t come after a dream like that.
My chest still aches with the echo of my mother’s voice, those words seared so deep I sometimes wonder if they’re stitched into my skin.I never should have had you. Should’ve left you in the hospital.It’s a kind of poison that doesn’t leave, no matter how many years pass.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory to fade, but all I see is her face. Wild, hollow, cruel. It’s a face that makes a girl believe she’s a mistake simply for existing.
And there’s him.
Colter’s heat seeps into me like a shield against the cold that the memory drags with it. His arm tightens across my waist, pinning me closer, his breath a slow, steady rhythm against the back of my neck. He’s all control and fire when he’s awake, but right now, he’s nothing but warmth, heavy and grounding, as if he’s daring the world to try and take me from him.
My hand moves before I can stop it, fingers brushing over the ridges of his forearm where it rests across me. He stirs, nuzzlesagainst my hair, and murmurs, “Sleep, Peyton.” His voice is low, rough from sleep, but gentler than I’ve ever hear it.
Something in me splinters.
I’ve never belonged anywhere. Not with my mother. Not with John. Not in the life I left behind. But here, in this moment, in his arms, the jagged edges inside me go quiet. My pulse slows. The ache in my chest eases. For the first time in years, maybe ever, I don’t feel like I need to brace myself for the next blow.
I should pull away. I should get up, put distance between us before I start confusing survival with comfort. But instead, I let myself sink back against him, my body molding to the hard planes of his chest, my cheek pressed to his arm.
His fingers flex once against my stomach, like even in sleeps he knows I’ve chosen to stay.
And for a little while, I let myself believe that maybe I’m not the mistake she always said I was.
When I wake again, the room is dark. The heavy black curtains have been drawn, blacking out the light that would normally be shining through the large floor-to-ceiling windows. It takes a moment for the night to come back to me.
Shit. John is going to be pissed at me.
I’d fallen back asleep easier than I ever have after one of my nightmares. That, in itself, is unnerving. My body doesn’t obey anyone, not even me half the time. But Colter? Somehow, he can command even my dreams into silence. He sayssleep, and I do. Like I don’t have a choice.
Slipping out of the covers, I pad across the floor, the wooden planks cool under my feet. The bathroom lights flood on when I step inside, illuminating what can only be described as an architect’s wet dream. Slate gray walls, glass-enclosed shower with twin rainfall heads, dark bronze fixtures polished to shine. It’s masculine, clean, expensive without being gaudy, like therest of the house. Rustic charm hiding in quiet luxury. Not unlike Colter himself.
Steam curls up quickly once I step under the spray. I tilt my head back, letting the water beat against my face, trying to rinse off the memory of last night. The rough edges, the intensity, the way he made me unravel until I didn’t recognize myself. But the water doesn’t wash it away. It only reminds me, the ache deep in my thighs proof that it wasn’t some fevered dream.
When I emerge, my skin flushed and damp, I find a sundress laid across the bench at the end of the bed. Cream-colored cotton, soft and simple. It’s not something I ever imagine Colter picking out himself. It fits when I slip it on, like it was chosen deliberately, waiting for me. That knowledge makes something flutter low in my stomach I don’t want to name.
