The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I could deflect, could make a joke, could pretend I don't know exactly what he's asking. But I'm done hiding from things that scare me.
"I'm in love with you," I whisper. "Maybe I've been in love with you since the first moment I met you. I don't know. But what I do know is that you make me feel safe and seen and like I matter. And that's something I've never had before."
He pulls me into his arms so fast that I gasp. His embrace is tight, almost desperate, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.
"You do matter. More than you know." He pulls back just enough to look at me. "And I'm in love with you, too. Have been since the day I met you."
I feel tears gathering again, but these are good tears. Happy tears. "Really?"
"Really." He brushes a strand of wet hair from my face. "You're it for me, Allison. Whatever happens, whatever I have to do to keep you safe, you need to know that."
"I know." And I do. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way he holds me. "I know."
We stand there in the bathroom, wrapped in towels, and for the first time since I woke up in that hospital room, I feel like everything might actually be okay. Because I have this man, and he has me, and whatever darkness is coming, we'll face it together.
"Come on," he says finally, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Let's get you into some dry clothes and back in bed. You need rest."
"Will you stay with me?"
"Always."
And as we walk back to the bedroom, his arm around my waist and mine around his, I let myself believe it. That this strong, complicated, beautiful man will always be there. That I've finally found something worth holding onto.
That I've found home.
Eight
Dime
"I'm heading out," I tell Devil as I make a stop at the office of Saint's Outlaws garage.
He gives me a nod. Only he and I know where I'm going. "See ya, let me know if you need anything."
"Be safe." I give him a wave.
Jogging over to my bike, I throw a chin hitch at Keegan, the teenage son of Ransom Thompson who has been working at the garage for a few months. He gives me a grin, reminding me of his dad.
Getting on the bike, I take off for the rural outskirts of Laurel Springs. There's only one reason I'm headed out this way, and that's to meet with Chief Harrison.
The ride takes about twenty minutes, the scenery changing from the familiar streets of town to rolling hills and farmland. Out here, it's quiet. Peaceful. The kind of place where you can have a conversation without worrying about who might overhear, or see you. Which is important, because no one else can know I'm undercover.
I pull off onto a dirt road that leads to an old barn that hasn't been used in years. Chief Harrison's unmarked SUV is already there, parked in the shadow of the building. I kill the engine and pull off my helmet, scanning the area out of habit before I walk over.
He's leaning against the hood of his vehicle, arms crossed over his chest. Chief Mason Harrison is in his fifties, with gray hair at his temples and sharp eyes that don't miss a damn thing.
"Dime," he greets me, and I can hear the irony in his voice. He's one of the few people who knows that's not my real name.
"Chief." I stop a few feet away, shoving my hands in my pockets. "What've you got?"
"We're doing what we can to find anything on the Clark family," he says, getting right to business. "But they're slippery. Money buys a lot of clean records and tight lips when it comes to this crew."
"What about Logan?"
His jaw tightens. "As you know, we let him go."
"I know, and I'm pissed about it." The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can't help it.
"We let him go in order to find out as much information as we can on the fentanyl-laced weed that keeps coming into Laurel Springs." Chief Harrison's voice is calm, measured. "Kid's scared shitless, and scared kids make mistakes. They talk to the wrong people, go to the wrong places. We've got eyes on him twenty-four seven, and I know y'all do too."
