Dipping my head, I place a kiss on her lips and watch as the muscles on her face relax with each passing beat. She’s close to sleep. Still breathing steady. Still here.
“You’re it for me, Sable.”
And I don’t move. Not for a long time.
Pulling her into me, her skin is warm against my chest, and the ache in my ribs dulls just enough to let me breathe.
But I don’t sleep.
Can’t.
JT’s busted face plays behind my eyes every time I close them. Stauder’s threat still echoes in the back of my skull. And this woman—this rare, unexpected woman—is lying here in my bed, carving forever into my heart without even realizing it.
Eventually, I slip out of bed. Quiet. Careful not to wake her.
I walk to the kitchen, open the drawer near the sink, and pull out a black felt-tip marker.
Sable’s still curled on her side, deep in sleep. I sit on the edge of the bed and lift her arm, holding her hand so she doesn’t stir.
Then I draw.
An angel wing. Not finished. Just the outline as if emerging from her skin. Each feather sketched in soft, rising arcs.
It’s fluid, feminine, and strong—wholly Sable.
I don’t know what she’s going to think when she sees it in the morning.
But if there’s any justice in the world, she’ll feel what I feel looking at her now.
I don’t sleep. Just lay next to her, staring at the ceiling, one hand on her hip holding what’s mine, heart full of fury and something dangerously close to love.
My body wakes up before I want it to. Not from an alarm. Just a habit. It always does this when I have nowhere to be. Snaps right back online no matter how little sleep I give it. I got maybe three and a half hours tops.
The room is still dim, soft morning light starting to leak in at the edges of the dark curtains. I stay still for a second, soaking in the quiet.
Hex is next to me.
Asleep.
And for once, I get to see what it’s like to have him laying in bed with me. Not tense, not watching or protecting. Just breathing. Laid out beside me, one arm slung across his chest, the other still resting near where I must’ve curled in close sometime in the night.
His face is softer in sleep. His mouth, his jaw, far less sharp. His lashes are long, and the lines near his eyes have eased. There’s peace here he likely never lets the world see.
My gaze drifts lower, over muscles I’ve already touched, already begun to claim. But with nothing in the way now, I catch the smaller things: faint scars scattered across his skin, the kind only noticed when you’re close enough to memorize them. I catalogued his ribs before sleep took me, but not the round bullet sized mark inside of his forearm. Or the scar running along the side of his head buried deep in dark hair. Those perfect lips and the divot that hooks just above the right side of his upper lip.
I reach out, careful not to wake him, and trace a white line on his exposed thigh with my fingertip. Faint. Raised. Old. My heart clenches in my chest, heavy with anguish.
And that’s when I see it.
My arm.
I pull it closer and blink, realizing it’s not just a smudge or a shadow. It’s a drawing. An angel wing inked in clean, perfect lines from shoulder to elbow. The delicate feathers emerging from my skin, curve with my movement.
I scoot up enough to look the art, brushing my fingers over it, afraid to smudge it but needing to feel it’s real.
Somehow in the calm the early morning hours offered after a tumultuous night, he drew this. Warmth wraps my heart, realizing just how much my body trusts him that I didn’t wake in the least.
I smile, something full and bright blooming in my chest. The story he told me slips to the forefront of my mind. His mother’s angel.
