I tangle my fingers with hers, leading her back to the bedroom and privacy. The quiet fills the empty spots between us as I hold her, sinking my head into her hair, breathing her in. Trying to remember this for always.
“Need you to be strong, Princess.”
She nods, fingers curling in my shirt and drawing me closer.
Our lips meet, heat and longing pressed between us. “Not Princess,” I say firmly, fingers sliding into her hair, dividing her locks without thinking. “Warrioress. Fighter.”
“Ass kicker,” she says in watery tones.
“Don’t I know it,” I grumble, plaiting her silky strands between fingers that remember.
When Jack comes earlier than he’s supposed to—as I expected he would—I carry her bag to the vehicle. Our eyes say everything our mouths can’t, pulses synced in the space before forgetting.
Only I know I won’t. Ever.
She wears my golden braids as the truck pulls out, sunlight catching in the strands.
I brace against the porch railing, exhaling slowly, as the truck disappears in a red dust cloud.
The consequences of every choice I’ve made since my first bodyguard job settle heavy in my chest.
The screen door squeaks. Floorboards whine as I step back into the cabin, prepared to wash away every trace of Mia—and the man she changed.
Chapter
Twenty
MIA
“Ms. Lowell,” the woman with gentle eyes greets. “I’m Mrs. Everley.” She steps forward, offering her hand.
I nod without returning the gesture, shrinking inwardly—unready to face the world or my celebrity again.
But the fifty-something woman with a gray-streaked mahogany bob doesn’t rush me. She doesn’t say a thing as I sit across from her in the office, and she folds her hands together.
“Welcome.” Her voice is smoky and soft as a whisper, but there’s a quiet steel running through it. My shoulders relax.
“Thank you.”
“We’ll start with a review of your medications, any prescriptions we may need to fill,” she says, typing on her laptop.
“Is this confidential?” I ask, brows knitting.
“Absolutely. And optional, too. We want to make you feel safe and comfortable here. Whatever that may look like for you.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead of twisting my arms in my lap, I bring one up, fingering the braid. I can almost feel Maverick with me. A quiet kind of strength.
“I haven’t been on anything for the past…” I pause, eyeing her. Weighing whether I can trust her. “The past few months, and I feel fine. Even mood. Clear head.”
“Does your doctor know about these changes?”
“Not the doctor or therapist Edwin makes me go to. No.”
“And you say you’re feeling better?”
“Yes, like I can finally think for myself.”
She smiles, not cloying or fake. But like my words have hit some chord she recognizes.
