Page 25 of The Cost of Silence

“Fine. I’ll call a rideshare.”

A growl escapes his throat. “Why do you have to be so infuriating?”

I shrug. “It comes naturally.”

He mutters something under his breath I don’t catch but I get the drift. He’s pissed, but I won’t back down on this. If he won’t take me, I’ll find a way to get there on my own.

Images of all of my precious memories burned to cinder clog my throat, stealing my fire. “Please? I need this.”

Nico’s gaze catches mine before it drops slowly over me. Like a lover’s touch. “What you need is to put some damn clothes on.”

And then….

Oh. Oh, God. I look down and gasp. If someone walked in right now, they’d think we were lovers. And the worst part is, I don’t think either of us would correct them.

I’m standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a threadbare T-shirt and panties. Bare legs, hard nipples. Bruised cheek. Hair a disaster.

No wonder he looked at me like he did. No wonder his jaw clenched like he was fighting something tooth and nail.

Warmth rushes through me, a flush blooming fast and hot across my cheeks. “I…um…I wasn’t really thinking about clothes,” I mutter, folding my arms instinctively, not thatcrossing them does anything except press the shirt tighter against my sensitive breasts.

His throat works once, a sharp flex.

He drags his eyes back up, slow, controlled, disciplined in a way that somehow makes it worse.

“Go get dressed,” he says, voice rougher than before, like he’s dragging the words over gravel. “Now.”

My breath stutters. “Does that mean you’re taking me?”

“It means you’re not getting into a rideshare with bruised ribs and no sense of self-preservation.” His jaw clenches. “I’m driving you. But put on clothes before I change my mind and do something we’ll both regret.”

Despite everything, my fear, the fire, the ache in my ribs, I feel something spark low in my belly. Something inconvenient. Something dangerous.

I turn quickly to hide the blush burning up my neck, perfectly aware I’m now flashing him my ass. “Fine. I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

“Make it one,” he mutters behind me.

I hurry back to the guest room, pulling on jeans that tug uncomfortably against my bruises and a sweater thick enough to make me feel less exposed. My hands shake the entire time, fear, adrenaline, grief, maybe a little of the aftershock from the way Nico looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to shield me or drag me straight back to bed.

When I open the door again, he’s waiting exactly where I left him.

Coffee mug on the counter.

Keys in hand.

Expression carved from stone.

He studies me again, top to bottom, this time with a different kind of intensity. Less heat. More assessment. Protection layered with barely controlled irritation.

“Let’s go,” he says, voice low.

Something inside me softens unexpectedly, something small and breakable, because even in his irritation, even wrapped in anger and command, he’s here.

He came running last night.

He stayed through the night.

He left pills by my bed.