My forehead pressed against hers. Close enough to share breath. Close enough to feel her pulse flutter against my palm.
“I love you.” Clear. Certain.
“I love you too.”
The kiss was slow. Soft. Tender.
Not desperate like before. Not claiming or demanding or proving anything.
Just promise.
Clare’s palms slid into my hair. Gentle. Her fingers threading through the short strands.
I held her like she was precious. Like she was all I’d been fighting to survive for.
Morning light streamed through the windows. Pale and clean. The first light of our new life.
When we pulled apart, we were both smiling.
We stayed like that. Wrapped in each other. Light spilling across frost-covered windows. The world outside icy and dangerous and waiting.
But in here, in this moment, we were safe.
We were enough.
And for the first time since I woke up bleeding in that alley with no memory and no ability to speak, I believed we might actually survive this.
Not just survive.
Live.
Chapter 27
Clare
The rental car’s air conditioning fought a losing battle against Colombian heat.
I rolled the window down halfway, letting humid air flood the interior. Salt and vegetation, orchids blooming somewhere close. After weeks of European winter, snow and frost and that bone-deep cold that never quite left, the tropics felt like stepping into someone else’s dream.
Xavier drove. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh like he’d forget I was real if he stopped touching me.
The road wound along the coast, narrow and crumbling in places where the ocean had decided pavement was a suggestion rather than a rule. Palm trees bent toward the water, their fronds rattling in the breeze. The sea stretched endlessly beyond them, turquoise fading to deep blue at the horizon.
Beautiful didn’t begin to cover it.
I glanced at him. His jaw was tight, tension radiating through his shoulders despite the peaceful scenery. He’d barely spoken since we’d landed in Cartagena six hours ago.
The scar on his neck caught my attention. Healed now, more than a week post-surgery. A thin line where the chip had been removed, evidence carved into his skin of everything he’d survived.
We’d spent two weeks at the mountain safe house after Geneva. Quiet. Domestic. Learning how to exist without constant threat of death hanging over us.
Or trying to, anyway.
Xavier’s hands tightened on the wheel.
I covered one with mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice came out rough. Unconvincing.
