He doesn’t speak.
He moves.
Fast.
The man with the gun raises it—Miles is already on him, knocking the gun hand up and away with one brutal motion, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest.
They slam into the dresser.
The gun skitters across the floor.
A second later Smoke is there—Smoke, like a shadow made of violence—kicking the gun farther away, pulling the man off balance, pinning him.
Everything is loud.
Everything is fast.
My hands fly to my mouth, but I force myself not to scream. Miles turns toward me, chest heaving, eyes wild.
“Danae.”
My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a threat. I nod frantically, tears blurring my vision. “I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
He crosses the room in three strides, grabbing my shoulders, his hands shaking as they sweep over me like he’s checking for injuries without thinking.
“Are you hurt?” he demands.
My voice comes out broken. “No. My wrists—just?—”
His eyes drop to the marks, and something in him snaps even further.
I can feel it.
The leash on his rage comes undone.
Smoke says something behind him—low, urgent. “We gotta move. Cops enroute.”
Miles doesn’t look away from me as he takes a knife to my restraints, releasing me. “Can you walk?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He reaches for my hands, then stops like he’s afraid he’ll hurt me.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Okay. We’re going home.”
Home.
The word hits me so hard my knees wobble.
I grab his cut like it’s the only solid thing in the universe. “Miles,” I whisper, because I need him to be real.
His eyes soften for the first time since he came through that door. He leans down pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve got you, baby. Never letting go.”
Outside the room, the house is chaos.
Men shouting. Furniture knocked over. A lamp shattered on the floor. The smell of gunpowder sharp in the air.
