The fabric is warm from his hands, smelling faintly of smoke and leather. Sliding into them feels like stepping into someone else’s life.
He waits until I’m dressed before he nods at the bed. “In.”
I blink. “What?”
“Bed,” he repeats, tone flat, no room for argument. “You need to get warm. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna try it on. No funny business.”
The words shouldn’t make my stomach flip, but they do. He doesn’t leer, doesn’t smirk. Just points at the bed like it’s a doctor’s order.
Too tired to fight, I slip under the covers. They’re cold at first, then soft, and I sink deeper into them, allowing the softness to caress my skin.
I watch as he pulls on some grey tracksuit bottoms, and I force my eyes to divert from his tattooed chest. “I’ll be back,” he mutters, heading for the door.
“Back with what?”
He pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. “A hot drink and a sandwich. You look like you’ll keel over if you don’t start to build your strength back up.”
My throat tightens at that, but I force my face blank. “I’m fine.”
He snorts, the sound low and disbelieving. “Sure, you are.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in his bed.
I stare up at the ceiling, clutching the blanket tight under my chin. I don’t know what scares me more—Colin’s threats, or the fact that part of me wants to believe Shadow really means it when he saysno funny business.
Because if I start believing in men like him, I’m done for.
The quiet stretches after he leaves, broken only by the hum of rain against the windows and the pounding of my own pulse in my ears. I try to convince myself to get up, to grab my bag and disappear before I get too comfortable. But the truth is, I can barely lift my arms, and the mattress is softer than anything I’ve slept on in weeks.
The door creaks open again. His heavy footfalls cross the floor, steady and certain, and I smell the bread before I see it.
“Sit up.”
His voice is low but firm, that tone that makes me obey even when I don’t want to. I push myself upright, tugging the blanket tighter around me, as he sets a steaming mug on the bedside table followed by a plate with a thick sandwich.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he says, dragging a chair closer and sitting like he’s not moving until I eat, “but it’ll do the job. And the bread was made fresh today. Luna is an expert.”
I eye the plate warily. “You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I did.”
That simple. No fuss, no explanation. Just certainty. Like he’s suddenly taken on the role of caregiver.
My hands shake as I pick up the sandwich. The first bite nearly undoes me—warm bread, melted cheese, something salty. I chew fast and swallow faster, because if I stop to taste it properly, I’ll cry, and I don’t want him to see that.
“Slow down,” he mutters, leaning forward. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
I glare at him over the bread. “Stop watching me.”
“So you can choke? No chance.”
I roll my eyes but keep eating. He waits until I’ve polished off half before sliding the mug closer. The steam curls up, rich and sweet. Hot chocolate.
I blink. “You made this?”
He shrugs, as if embarrassed. “It was in Lexi’s cupboard. Didn’t think you needed caffeine.”
The first sip scalds my tongue, but I don’t care. Heat spreads through me, chasing away the chill in my bones. My throat works around a lump I can’t swallow.
