Her arms drop.
She's shaking. Tears streaming. Chest heaving.
But she doesn't fall.
She stands there—gutted and furious and still standing—and I see it all. Every sleepless night. Every nightmare she white-knuckled her way through. Every moment she wanted to shatter and didn't. The fear she's been choking on for weeks and the rage underneath it, the part of her that's done being hunted, done being small, done waiting for permission to survive.
She doesn't say a word.
She doesn't have to.
I step toward her. Take the gun. The barrel burns my palm. I tuck it into my waistband and the heat sears through and I don't feel it. I don't feel anything but her.
My hands find her shoulders.
She looks up at me. Wrecked. Raw. Unbroken.
There you are.
"Eden." My voice comes out broken. "I'm not—" I stop. Try again. "The last person who got close to me burned for it."
She grabs the front of my shirt.
And I'm gone.
I crash into her.
There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing slow. My mouth finds hers and I take like I've been starving for it—because I have. Days of watching her. Days of keeping my hands to myself. Days of drowning three feet from air.
She gasps and I swallow the sound, my hand sliding into her hair, fisting at the roots. Her back hits the shed wall and the whole thing shudders and I don't care, I don't care about anything except the way she's clinging to me, her fingers twisted in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear.
I'm not going anywhere.
I bite her bottom lip. She moans—this broken, desperate sound that goes straight through me—and I lose whatever thread of control I had left. I grip her hip, haul her closer, pin her between my body and the wall. She arches into me. Nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt.
"Diesel—"
I kiss her harder. I don't want to hear my name. I don't want to hear anything that sounds like a question, like doubt, like wait. I want her gasping. I want her shaking. I want her as wrecked as I am.
She gives as good as she gets. Her teeth catch my lip. Her hands shove under my shirt, palms flat against my stomach, and I groan against her mouth. She's not soft. She's not careful. She's fighting for this the same way she fights for everything—like survival.
I pull back just enough to breathe. Rest my forehead against hers. We're both panting. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are wet but blazing.
"Tell me to stop," I manage. "Say it once and I will."
She fists my shirt. Yanks me back down.
"I said don't you dare."
I lift her. Her legs wrap around my waist. The Glock digs into my spine and I don't feel it. I don't feel anything but her—her heat, her weight, her heartbeat slamming against mine.
She kisses me like she's proving something. Like she's rewriting every moment she ever felt powerless.
And I let her.
I let her take whatever she needs.
Chapter Eight
