I stand there longer than necessary, watching her breathe, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers curl into the blanket like it belongs to her.
I’ve brought women home before.
None of them ever saw this room.
None of them ever saw me.
And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like a pattern.
It feels like a line.
One I’m not interested in crossing the same way ever again.
Chapter Thirteen
AUDRA
I wake up to quiet.
Not the library quiet where there’s murmuring and shushing and the subtle pressure to behave. No. This is different. This is house-quiet. A hush that doesn’t feel like silence so much as… permission.
Permission to stay still.
Permission to take inventory.
Permission to acknowledge that I’m on Derek Pierce’s couch, wrapped in someone else’s blanket, and my body is no longer braced for impact.
For a few seconds I don’t move at all. I just listen.
A low hum from somewhere—maybe the fridge. The faint tick of something mechanical in the walls. The soft, distant sound of water… running? Or it could be my brain trying to make sense of noise the way it’s been doing since last night: guessing, lagging, filling in gaps.
My head doesn’t pound the way it did earlier. It’s more… tender. Like a bruise I can feel if I press too hard. My mouth is dry, but not sandpaper-dry. My stomach is quiet.
That alone feels like a miracle.
I blink slowly and let my eyes adjust.
The living room is exactly as I remember it—clean lines, muted color, intentional everything. Derek’s house doesn’t clutter. It doesn’t shout. It holds.
The blanket shifts when I breathe, and I realize my fingers are still curled into it like it belongs to me. Like I’d been afraid it would disappear if I let go.
I loosen my grip, embarrassed at myself even though no one is here to witness it.
I sit up carefully, waiting for the room to tilt.
It doesn’t.
Good.
Somewhere down the hall, a door opens and shuts with quiet restraint. Footsteps—slow, measured. Not Mark’s heavier stride. Not Alex’s loose saunter. This is… controlled.
Him.
My throat does something stupid, like my body is a teenager and my brain has no authority.
I pull the blanket tighter anyway. Armor. Habit. It’s ridiculous, considering I’m wearing Derek’s shirt and probably look like a half-feral woodland creature who wandered into a billionaire’s living room and decided to take a nap.
The footsteps pause.
