“Thank you,” she says quietly. Her breath warms my chest, and it’s the kind of warmth that reaches all the way into your soul. “For listening. For being you.” Her grip on my shirt tightens, and she turns her face into my chest. “And please don’t doubt it for a second, Lucky. I want you,” she admits, and it sets all of my nerves on fire. “I’m still learning how to want someone without falling apart—but don’t worry, I’m a fast learner when the motivation’s good.”
She’s so good at it—getting me to laugh at moments that should be filled with weight. But one comes out of my lips. I squeeze her harder. “Trust me, I don’t hate you saying that.”
She huffs a laugh and buries her face deeper into my chest. I feel her grin against my shirt. We’re quiet for several long moments, digesting the massive amount of confessions that have been uttered tonight.
It’s a lot. It should be enough to make the average person call, “I’m out. Have a nice life.” But we’re both still here, clinging to the other.
After a long moment, Willow takes in a shaky breath. “Lucky, I don’t want to leave tonight.”
My chest caves.
She leans back just enough to meet my eyes. “Can I stay? Just to sleep? I don’t… I don’t think I’m ready to let you go tonight.”
Something hot and painful surges up behind my eyes. I’ve lived in this penthouse for years—filled it with luxury and shadows—but it’s always been empty. Always just me.
And now Willow Vale, with her darkness and her jagged edges and her bloodstained past and present, is asking to stay. Not for sex. Not for safety. Just to be here. With me.
I nod, swallowing hard. My voice cracks anyway. “Please. Stay.”
We’re both exhausted. It’s been a hell of a day. The kind that feels like it’s been an entire damn week. And maybe I’m just ridiculous, but I can’t stand the thought of letting her go, even for a few moments. So, overly dramatic and completely addicted, I stand with Willow in my arms. She wraps her arms around my neck, her legs cobra wrapping my hips. And fuck, if this isn’t the best thing in the whole damn world. My arms are wrapped around her tightly, and somehow, it feels like she was carved to fit right here.
I hit the lights and walk into the bedroom. I hate it, but I have to let Willow go as I find her something to sleep in—a t-shirt that drowns her. She steps into the bathroom to pull it on, and then crawls into the bed. I change into some sweatpants and a black t-shirt, and climb in on the other side of the bed.
It feels holy, having another source of heat in this bed, for the very first time. It feels like a sacrament when Willow doesn’t even hesitate as she curls up into my side, resting her head onmy chest. She’s warm. Solid. Real. And she clings to me like I’m the first anchor she’s found in a decade.
My arms lock around her like I can keep the world away if I just hold tight enough.
But she isn’t the only one relaxing for what feels like the first time in forever. My eyes slide closed, and I nearly fucking lose it. Because for the first time in my life, I’m not alone. For the first time in my life, someone has been shown every part of me, and she’s still here.
chapter thirteen
WILLOW
I wake up warm.
There’s no icy pit in my stomach, no phantom hands clutching my throat, no sense of dread pressing me back under the covers. Just warmth. A steady heartbeat against my ear. The slow rise and fall of someone else’s chest beneath my cheek.
Lucky’s chest.
His arms are locked around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear in my sleep. He smells like neroli and cedar and something faintly smoky, and my whole body hums with the reminder that I am not alone.
It’s the best sleep I’ve had since I was a teenager. Maybe ever.
I don’t dare move at first. I just lie there, letting myself soak it in. His body is solid, protective, like a wall against the chaos. I should feel trapped, but instead I feel… safe.
I tilt my head just enough to look at him. Lucky’s face in sleep is softer, stripped of the shadows and sarcasm. His lashes are unfairly long, his mouth relaxed instead of curved into one of those dangerous grins. He’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. Not just the outside. Inside, too.
Last night, he unmasked himself for me. Brooklyn. His mob-adjacent family. The corpses. The organs. The circus. The birth of Saint Shade. And finally—the truth of his name. Lucky.
No wonder he didn’t flinch when Dusty hit the tarp. He grew up knee-deep in body bags and blood money. And instead of drowning in it, he clawed his way out, reinvented himself into something that could survive. Something dazzling.
Something mine.
The thought is wild, dangerous, unhinged. But as I look at him, as I remember every word he said, every vow in his eyes when I told him my own ugly truth, I know it’s real.
I more than like him. I might be falling in love with him.
I should be scared of that. Instead, it feels like standing in sunlight after years of dark.
