There was no hesitation. No calculation. No careful wording.
Just truth.
The words settled into me like a vow, even though neither of us called it that. Because he wasn’t staying out of obligation or instinct alone. He was staying because I mattered enough to disrupt his plans.
I exhaled slowly, pressing my forehead to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
“Okay,” I whispered.
And this time, when he wrapped his arms around me—protective, unyielding, real—I didn’t feel like I was being sheltered from my life.
I felt like I was finally being met inside it.
We cleaned up together, carefully, reverently. Connor moved through the space like a guardian, but he let me lead when it came to my things. When I picked up the torn photos, he watched my face, not the damage.
By the time we left for the residency, my apartment was still shaken—but so was something else.
Whatever had been done to scare me had also clarified something important.
I wasn’t shrinking back.
I wasn’t giving up the life I was building.
And Connor—dangerous, careful, devastating Connor—wasn’t here to replace it.
He was here to stand beside it.
19
CONNOR
The Sanctuary car glided through Paris like a shark through deep water—silent, predatory, utterly out of place among the battered Citroëns and scooters that clogged the morning streets.
Ellsworth drove with the same unflappable precision he brought to everything else, navigating the narrow roads like he'd memorized the city in a previous life. Maybe he had. Former SAS types didn't end up as butlers by accident.
Mila sat beside me in the back, her camera resting on her lap, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the leather case. She hadn't said much since we'd left her apartment. Just stared out the window, watching Paris slide past like she was cataloging every detail in case she never saw it again.
I wanted to tell her it would be okay.
I didn't.
Lying to her felt worse than staying silent.
When we pulled up outside the residency—a converted warehouse with whitewashed brick and tall windows that caught the morning light—I half-expected police tape. Blockades. Somevisible acknowledgment that the world had tilted sideways. That Merrick had stained her twice.
Instead, it was just another day in Paris.
People walked past with coffee and croissants. A delivery truck idled at the corner. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, sharp and insistent.
Normal.
Like violence was something that only happened in the cracks between ordinary moments, invisible unless you knew where to look.
Mila reached for the door handle, then stopped.
"I want to go in alone," she said quietly.
I turned to face her. "Mila?—"
