Instead, I settle into the armchair in the corner of my room. I should go sleep on the couch in the common area, give her privacy. But the thought of leaving her alone, even here in my room doesn’t sit well.
So I stay. I watch her sleep and let myself imagine what it might be like to have someone so soft and gentle in my life. Someone who creates beauty instead of destroying it.
It's a dangerous fantasy for a man like me. But as I sit in the darkness listening to her quiet breathing, feeling the rightness of her presence in my space, I can't bring myself to let the fantasy go.
Chapter 10
Cami
I feel so well rested. I can't remember the last time I slept so deeply.
The bed beneath me is easily the most comfortable thing I've experienced in months—a far cry from the cramped backseat of my Corolla or the occasional cheap motel when I could scrape together enough tip money. But guilt immediately replaces the serenity. This ishisroom.Hisbed. The masculine space feels intimate in a way that makes heat crawl up my neck.
Everything is spartanly organized—black furniture, minimal decoration, a dresser with a precise arrangement of items on top. But there's an armchair in the corner with a rumpled blanket thrown over it and a pillow on the cushion. He spent the night there.
Watching over me…?
The thought makes my throat tight, that specific ache that comes before crying, though I haven't let myself cry in months. I hate how much I want that—someone checking on me, making sure I'm safe.
I sit up carefully, my body stiff after sleeping so hard. The oversized t-shirt Trix gave me swallows my frame, and myreflection in the dresser mirror shows hair that's dried in crazy, wild waves. My uniform from last night hangs over a chair—mostly dry now. Not that it matters. Missing my shifts at both jobs yesterday means I'm definitely fired. More bridges burned in a life full of smoking ruins.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "You awake, honey?" Trix's voice is caring. Not something I'd expect from a virtual stranger.
"Yes, come in."
She enters carrying a steaming mug and a plate piled high with food that makes my stomach growl. The coffee smells like heaven, and the scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast look like a feast fit for royalty.
"Figured you might be hungry." Trix sets the food on the nightstand, and her hand rests on my shoulder. It's such a small thing, but nobody's offered me a comforting touch in so long that my eyes burn. Her shrewd gaze takes in my appearance with the same assessing look from last night. "When's the last time you ate a real meal?"
I have to think about it. Yesterday morning, maybe? A stale donut from the gas station before my shift at the diner started.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the lie tumbling from my lips.
Trix settles into the armchair where Wrath spent the night, fixing me with a look that suggests she sees right through my deflection. "That wasn't what I asked."
Heat floods my face—not embarrassment exactly, but shame at being so obviously needy.
"Thank you," I say quietly, reaching for the coffee. "This is really kind of you."
"Wrath would have my hide if you didn't eat." Trix leans back in the chair, studying me. "Man's been pacing the common room since dawn like a caged tiger."
The image affects me in a weird way. He’s concerned? For me? When I picture him out there, restless and agitated, a liquid heat spreads between my thighs. "He seems...intense."
Trix's mouth curves in a small smile. "In all the years I've known him, I've never seen Wrath lose his cool like he did last night. I thought we might have to scrape Tank off the floor—what was left of him.”
I take a bite of eggs—perfectly seasoned and still warm—and try to process this information. "I don't understand why he's helping me. He doesn't even know me."
"Honey, I can't speak for him, but the way he looked at you last night. Whew!" Trix fans herself with a hand, her expression a mix of amusement and amazement. "Like you were the last woman on earth and he'd been searching for you his whole life."
I remember how he appeared from the shadows like some avenging angel when Tank was crowding me. The absolute authority in his voice when he declared no one better touch me. The way he slept in a chair and gave me his bed.
"He scares me a little," I admit, surprised by my own honesty.
"Good scared or bad scared?"
The question catches me off guard. I pause with a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth, considering. Good scared or bad scared? I'm used to bad scared—the kind that comes from knowing someone bigger and stronger than you wants to hurt you. But what I feel around Wrath is different. Overwhelming, yes. Intimidating, absolutely. But underneath the fear is something that feels almost like...excitement.
"Both, maybe?" I answer truthfully.
