A few seconds later, she was asleep.
I tucked the blanket around her shoulders, careful not to wake her. Moved a strand of copper hair from her face, my fingers barely brushing her skin, warm and soft and real. And for a long moment, I just stood there watching her sleep—the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hands curled loosely against thepillow, the absolute trust it took to let yourself be this vulnerable in someone else's space.
She was beyond beautiful.
And in that moment, standing in the doorway of my temporary room in a bed and breakfast in Charleston, I wanted to wake her. To tell her everything. About my father disappearing when we needed him most. My mother forgetting my name but remembering the names of flowers with perfect clarity. The ranch I couldn't visit because failure lived in every acre. The brothers I'd abandoned to carry burdens I should have helped shoulder. The years I'd spent running from anything that required me to stay, to commit, to be known instead of just seen.
But I didn't.
Because I was a coward.
And today was about her. Her pain. Her healing. Her rest.
What kind of man burdens a soul like hers with the aftermath of a life lived poorly? What kind of man dumps his guilt and shame and fear onto someone who'd just been through hell and barely made it out?
Not a man. A boy.
And I was no longer a boy, even if I still made a boy's choices, sometimes.
So, the man turned away. Closed the door quietly behind him, the latch clicking soft. Went to the living room and sat on Mama P's worn sofa that smelled faintly of lavender and old books, and waited.
All the while thinking about the angel sleeping in his bed. The perfect person who deserved better than what I could give her.
And I made a promise to myself right there, sitting in the afternoon light filtering through lace curtains, dust motes floating in the air like evidence of time passing: I would not fuck this up with my fucked-up life.
Tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. I'd leave. Make some excuse. Work emergency. Dominion Hall needed an answer. Something believable that wouldn't hurt her more than necessary, that would let her keep the good memories without tainting them with my damage.
Because I couldn't live like this. Not now. Not ever.
Sophie deserved someone whole. Someone who could show up without all this broken weight dragging behind him like chains. Someone who wasn't still running from ghosts he'd never learned how to face, who didn't wake up some mornings forgetting where he was or who he'd become.
Best to go back to the only thing I was good at.
War. And killing.
At least there, I knew the rules. Knew what was expected. Knew how to be useful without dragging anyone else down into the dark with me. Knew how to exist without being a burden on people who deserved light instead of shadow.
I leaned my head back against the sofa and closed my eyes, listening to the silence of the house, the distant sounds of Charleston outside—traffic, voices, life continuing on like nothing had changed.
And tried not to think about what I was about to lose.
Again.
17
Washington, D.C.
Special Agent Trevor Klein pounded away at his keyboard while keeping a sliver of attention on the minimized window in the corner of his screen.
Charleston. Fucking Charleston.
It was supposed to be his come-up. Supposed to make his career. And now, with that woman Victoria gone—the one who'd coaxed him into starting a quiet investigation into Natalie Kennedy, the princess of fucking Charleston—he had nothing.
Victoria had led him down the path, all right. Wined and dined him. She had contacts that made him swoon. They'd even shared a bed, though she was much older. More than willing, though.
And the power. She'd radiated it.
And that had sucked him in completely.
