Her breathing evens out first. I listen to it for a long time, feeling the rise and fall of her ribs against my side.
Sleep pulls at me slowly. I fight it just long enough to tighten my arm around her, to breathe in the scent of her hair one more time.
Then I let go.
We fall asleep together, our bodies entwined, hearts beating in quiet rhythm, while the storm howls on outside, unable to touch us here.
Chapter eleven
Isla
The storm has passed by morning, leaving the world quiet and dripping. Sunlight filters through the thin curtains in pale, watery streaks, touching the edges of the bed where I lie curled against Ronan’s chest. His arm is heavy across my waist, breath slow and even against my hair. For the first time in longer than I can remember, waking up doesn’t feel like bracing for impact. It feels like possibility.
I shift just enough to see his face. Sleep has softened the hard lines around his mouth, eased the tension that usually lives in his jaw. His lashes are dark against his skin, the scar along his cheekbone silver in the light. He looks younger like this, less guarded, less haunted. My heart does a slow, aching roll. I want to trace that scar with my fingertip. I want to kiss the corner of his mouth until he wakes smiling. I want to believe last night wasn’t just comfort borrowed from grief, but the beginning of something real.
But hope is a fragile thing, and I’ve learned to hold it carefully.
I stay still a little longer, listening to the steady thump of his heart under my cheek, memorizing the warmth of his skin against mine. The cottage is silent except for the occasional drip from the eaves outside and the faint creak of the old house settling. No wind. No rain. Just us.
His arm tightens reflexively when I finally move to slip away. Eyes still closed, he murmurs something low and sleepy, pulls me closer. A small, helpless smile tugs at my lips. I press a soft kiss to the center of his chest.
“Morning,” I whisper.
He hums, voice rough with sleep. “You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?”
He opens his eyes then, dark, serious, searching my face like he’s waiting for the moment I disappear. “Thought maybe you’d run.”
“I’m done running.”
Something flickers in his gaze, relief, maybe, or hope he doesn’t trust yet. He lifts a hand, brushes a strand of hair from my cheek with his thumb. The touch is gentle, almost reverent.
“Stay,” he says quietly.
I lean down and kiss him slow, lingering. He tastes like sleep and coffee from last night and something deeper, something that makes my chest ache in the best way. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there, deepening the kiss until we’re both breathless.
When we finally part, he rests his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to let you go.”
“Then don’t.”
For a moment it feels possible, like we could stay tangled in these sheets forever, like the world outside could wait.
Then the sound of gravel crunching under tires cuts through the quiet.
My stomach drops.
Ronan feels the change in me instantly. He sits up, body going alert in a way that speaks of years of training. “Stay here.”
He’s already moving, pulling on jeans, grabbing his shirt from the floor, heading for the living room without a sound. I follow anyway, heart hammering, wrapping the sheet around me like armor.
Through the front window, I see the black sedan again. Travis steps out, jacket zipped against the morning chill, face set in that calm mask he wears when he’s most dangerous. He doesn’t knock this time. He walks straight to the porch and tries the door. Finds it locked. Then he steps back, looks around, and disappears around the side of the house.
Ronan is at the door in seconds, deadbolt turning. “Get dressed. Now.”
I scramble back to the bedroom, pull on yesterday’s clothes with shaking hands. By the time I return, Ronan has the shotgun from above the mantel in his hands, not pointed, just held low and ready. His face is calm, but his eyes are cold steel.
The back door rattles—once, twice—then a sharp crack as something heavy slams against it. Wood splinters. The door flies open.
