“Yeah, sweetheart.” I unbuckled and pulled her into my lap before the jet even leveled out. “Whatever you need.”
She climbed into me like muscle memory—one arm around my neck, her cheek pressed into my throat, her legs hooking over mine. She burrowed in with these tiny, broken whimpers, shaking so bad I wrapped both arms around her and held on like I could fuse her back together.
She smelled like fear, sweat, and her. Always her.
Somewhere over Arizona, she went limp with sleep. Not peaceful—more like a body giving out. But even unconscious, her hand stayed tangled in my shirt, knuckles white.
Tom Morrison’s pilot had taken one look at us—her wrapped around me like a child clinging to safety, the bruises already blooming across her face, my expression probably lethal enough to qualify as a weapon—and didn’t ask a single damn question. Just shut the door and got us in the air fast.
God bless Texas men who knew when to keep their mouths shut.
She stirred once,maybe twice, small little sounds tearing out of her throat.
I shifted her carefully. “Bathroom?”
A tiny nod.
I carried her because she was shaking too hard to walk. Held her steady while she used the toilet. Kept my eyes respectfully averted but stayed close enough that she knew I wasn’t leaving. Helped her wash her hands when she couldn’t figure out the faucet.
Then, under the soft cabin lights, I checked every place she winced.
Her wrists—bruised where he’d grabbed her.
Her collarbone—red marks where he’d shoved her down.
Her face—one ugly bruise across her cheekbone blooming like oil under her skin.
Her throat—four fingerprint bruises on one side, a thumbprint on the other.
I swore under my breath. Hard. Low. Vicious.
“I’m gonna kill him,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.
It must’ve been shock. Or trust. Or both.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered as I lifted her back into my arms.
She made this sound—God, the smallest, most broken noise I’ve ever heard—and tucked her face into my neck.
Then she climbed back into my lap with this instinctive, full-body urgency, wrapping herself around me like she was trying to get inside my skin. Her shaking got worse, not better, and I tightened my hold, rocking her gently even though my own hands were trembling.
Her fingertips curled into my chest. Her breath hitched against my throat. She was freezing.
“Still here,” I murmured every time her breathing stuttered. “I’m still here, baby.”
Every twenty minutes or so, she surfaced—never really awake, just… checking. Her fingers would clench. Her head would lift a fraction. Her lips would part like she was about to fall apart completely.
“Stephy,” I’d whisper. “I’m right here.”
She would let out a fragile breath. Tap my chest once. And slip under again.
It was like watching someone drown and bob up for air on instinct alone.
When the pilot announced our descent, she didn’t stir.
I pressed my lips to her temple, breathing her in. “Almost home,” I whispered, my voice shaking for the first time all night. “Almost safe.”
