Luke didn't seem convinced.
His hands slid down to her wrists. He turned them over, palms up, studying. Red marks were already blooming where Rourke had grabbed her.
Luke's thumb brushed over the marks. Feather-light.
"Here?" His voice was tight. "Anywhere else?"
Grace shook her head.
That's when the trembling started.
Just a shiver at first. Then another. Then her whole body.
Her knees felt weak. The ground felt too far away.
Luke pulled her into his arms.
She went willingly, collapsing against his chest. His arms came around her—solid, sure—one hand firm between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head. The sash proclaiming him marshal pressed against her cheek.
"I've got you," he said, low and steady. "You're safe. I've got you."
Grace pressed her face into his jacket. The fabric smelled like him—soap and coffee and something clean.
She let it happen then.
The shaking. The fear she'd been holding back.
His heartbeat thundered against her ear. Too fast. Still racing. Still catching up to what had almost happened.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, holding on.
"I knew you'd come," she said quietly.
His arms tightened.
When he spoke, his voice was soft and his words a vow. "I'll always come for you."
Grace pulled back just enough to look at him.
Around them, the world was still moving. People talking. Radios crackling. But it all felt distant.
"Luke," she said.
He searched her face, waiting.
"Ask me again."
It took a moment and then she saw understanding wash over his face. His throat worked. For a moment, he looked more terrified than he had facing down Rourke.
"Grace Hart?—“
She smiled. She couldn't help it. He looked wrecked. Beautiful.
"Yes," she said immediately. "Obviously yes."
His hands stayed on her, like he was afraid to let go. His eyes closed. Just for a second.
When he opened them again, Grace saw it all—relief, joy, disbelief.
