JT’s still grinning, even though I know his whole face must ache. “Fair enough.”
I’m still watching her, stunned. I know I must be looking at her the way you look at something you thought only existed in fairytale stories.
She handled it all—blood, bruises, pain, humor—without breaking stride. Didn’t blink at the mess. Didn’t shrink at the gore. She came in, took control, made things better, and somehow didn’t make a show of it.
Sable’s not just good in a crisis. Shebecomesthe calm in it. Like the storm bends around her instead of touching her, like chaos itself doesn’t dare disrupt the steadiness she brings.
Being in my bed, writhing beneath me and whispering my name in the dark was a bonus. But having her in my life—inmy world—is becoming a need. To have her threaded through the parts of me I’ve kept sealed off. Not because I thought no one could handle them, but because I never believed anyone would try.
But she would.
She already is.
The depraved thrum in my chest for wanting her, needing her doesn’t feel like lust. It’s been something I’ve been missing since the moment my mother’s body went cold. Something sacred. Something I’d kill to protect.
Hell, something Iwillkill to protect.
Standing there in the bloodstained office of my bar with drywall dust on my knuckles and my brother busted to hell, all I can think is:
What the fuck did I do to deserve this woman?
JT refused the bed upstairs, no matter how many times I offered it. Stubborn little bastard kept waving me off, half-sitting, half-sinking into the office couch.
“I'm fine,” he said, more annoyed than weak. “Stop hovering, man.”
Will even offered to take him to his place, but JT gave him a hard “fuck no” without missing a beat. Said he wouldn’t subject himself to staying in theHouse of OCDfor even one night. I didn't argue after that. Just tossed him a blanket and made sure the office door locked from the inside.
Now, upstairs in the loft, I watch Sable climb into my bed with the ease of someone who belongs there. With one graceful movement, she shucks off her pants, bare legs brushing the sheets as she slides beneath the covers.
She’s quiet. I don’t think she’s questioning her choice to be with me, she’s likely bone-deep tired. I see it in the way she moves, her limbs slower, heavier. In the way her eyes press shut just a beat too long when she blinks.
I stand near the edge of the bed, watching her in the soft lamplight. She’s curled on her side, her hair mussed, her breathing slow but not quite restful. Her body looks like it’s trying to relax, but her face… her face still holds the tension of this late hour.
I reach for the hem of my shirt, ready to strip off everything the night dumped on us, but I stop when she slides to the edge of the bed.
The motion is slow, intentional. Not for show.
Forme.
The blanket falls from her lap. Then she positions herself to kneel in front of me on the mattress’s edge.
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask to help me.
She just looks up at me with those tired, beautiful brown eyes and lifts her hands to the bottom of my shirt.
Her fingers graze my skin—light, curious—as she pushes the fabric up inch by inch. I raise my arms, letting her take it off. Her knuckles brush scars and hardened muscle on the way. The shirt lands somewhere behind her, forgotten.
Sable’s hands coasts over my torso like she’sstudyingme. Not mapping the damage buthonoringit.
Pressing her palm flat against my stomach, she trails upward, over the dip between my ribs. She runs her delicate fingertips across the old burn mark on my side, a faint keepsake of a fight I don’t remember winning.
She traces one of the deeper scars near my underarm, a questioning look taking over her features.
“This one?” she murmurs.
“Knife. Big one.”
She nods like it makes perfect sense and doesn’t blanch at the idea of someone stabbing me.
