She doesn’t complain about the grip. Just holds on.
Protector.The word doesn’t fit. I’ve never thought of myself that way. Enforcer. Soldier. Killer. Those I understand. Those I’ve earned.
Protector is something else. Something cleaner than I deserve.
“I’m only good for violence.” I lower my face to her neck. Breathe her in. “It’s all I’ve ever been. But I’ll keep you safe, Si. I’ll put that bastard down just like I did before.”
She presses her lips to my chest. Right over my heart.
“I know you will.”
We stand there for a long moment. Her arms around me, mine around her. The lamp casting shadows across the walls and neither of us moving to turn on more light.
I’ve never told anyone what I told her tonight. Not the full story. Not the years of letting it happen, the shame that’s lived in my bones since I was a kid. I expected the telling to make it worse. To crack open something I’d never be able to close again.
Instead, I just feel tired. And maybe a little lighter.
Sierra trusts me. Not despite what I am, but because of it. She looked at the worst parts of me and didn’t run.
I've had women before. Bodies in the dark, nothing that mattered. The ones who knew what I did wanted the thrill or the protection. Never looked too close. Never asked.
Sierra asked.
My arms tighten around her. She makes a sleepy sound, and I press my lips to the top of her head.
The scars aren’t going anywhere. Neither is the truth of what I did.
But for the first time in fourteen years, I’m not carrying it alone.
24
SIERRA
The weightof Matteo’s story settles into my bones like something permanent. Something I’ll carry now, too.
He’s never told anyone this. I know it the way I know my own heartbeat. The halting words, the way his jaw clenched against each syllable like he was swallowing glass. This man who moves through the world like nothing can touch him just cracked himself open for me.
And God, what I saw inside him.
He was just a kid when he first started dealing with that. A teenager when he finally ended it.
My childhood wasn’t perfect, but it was safe. I never knew what it felt like to fear the footsteps in my own hallway.
Something hot and ugly surges through my blood when I think about his stepfather. I’ve never wanted someone dead before. Never understood that kind of rage. But right now, I’m grateful that man is already in the ground because if he wasn’t, I might do something about it myself.
I pull back from the hug but don’t let go completely. My hand finds his, fingers lacing through. His palm is rough, calloused, warm. Holding it feels different than it did before. More intimate. Listening to him talk about the worst parts of his life made me feel close to him in a way I’ve never felt with anyone. And now I want closer. I want to make him feel good.
I lead him toward the bedroom without a word.
He follows. And when we cross the threshold, I turn to face him, searching those blue eyes for permission. For confirmation that he feels what I feel right now.
The answer is written all over him.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing the sensitive skin near my ear, and I lean into the touch like I’m starving for it. His other palm finds the small of my back, pulling me close enough that I can feel exactly how much he wants me.
He kisses me like he’s trying to consume me whole.
I melt into it, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling muscle flex beneath warm skin. He’s still shirtless, still warm from his workout. The salt-musk smell of him is everywhere. I should find it off-putting. I don’t.
