“Yes.” My voice trembles. “I want to feel normal for five minutes. I want to feel safe.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You’ll have it,” he says. “You’ll have me.”
By the time we reach the cabin, the adrenaline has turned into something else.
A deep ache under my skin.
A need to be held so tightly I can’t fall apart.
Knox gets us inside, checks the locks on reflex, scans the corners like danger might still be hiding in my grief.
Then his focus comes back to me.
All of him.
He steps close, slow enough to give me time to flinch.
I don’t.
I reach for him first.
My hands fist in his shirt and I drag him down, kissing him like proof I’m still here. Like I need to convince myself.
“I want to take a shower,” I say.
“We’ll take one together. Let me take care of you.”
I nod.
His hands go to the hem of my shirt, and he waits.
I lift my arms.
He pulls it over my head and drops it behind us.
Then my jeans. My underwear. My socks.
He never rushes. Never takes his eyes off mine unless he’s kissing my skin, slow and reverent.
He strips off his own clothes next—shirt, boots, jeans—and every motion feels like a vow.
I follow him into the shower.
The water hits my skin warm and steady, and I shudder.
He pulls me to him beneath the stream, his arms strong around my waist, my cheek against his chest. His skin is hot. His heartbeat steady.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I whisper.
We don’t move for a while.
Then his hands slide into my hair, gentle, and he starts to wash me.
He doesn’t ask. He justdoes. Soft fingers massaging shampoo through my scalp, rinsing it out with care. He reaches for thesoap next, lathers it in his palms, then trails it across my shoulders, down my arms, over my back. Every motion is slow, patient, reverent.
I close my eyes and let him.
