She makes a small, fractured sound and surges forward, clutching my shirt with desperate strength, fingers fisting into the fabric like I’m the only thing holding her upright. Like if she lets go, she’ll fall apart entirely.
“I’ve got you,” I say immediately, wrapping my arms around her. “You’re safe. I’ve got you, Row.”
I hold her carefully but firmly, giving her something solid, something real to hold onto. My hands are slick with blood, but I don’t let go. I don’t shift. I let her breathe against me, let the shaking tear through her until it burns itself out.
“I’m here,” I murmur into her hair. “I swear to you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Miguel is speaking somewhere behind me, voice low andcontrolled, already calling it in, already handling the aftermath. I don’t listen.
Rowan is alive. That’s the only thing that matters.
I gather her into my coat and lift her, careful not to jostle her, not to break the fragile calm settling over her now. She doesn’t protest. She clings to me, her head tucked against my chest, her breathing uneven but slowly evening out.
I take her to the only place I trust her to be safe.
The church.
I lay her down in one of the safe rooms and pull a blanket over her. She curls in on herself instinctively, exhaustion crashing down now that the danger has passed. I dim the lights, keep the room quiet.
She’s asleep within minutes.
Deep. Boneless. Safe.
I stand there longer than I should, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Rowan.
Brave. Reckless. Stupidly, beautifully unafraid, has finally come full circle.
26
JUSTIN
Iwatch her as she drifts in and out of sleep. She’s so exhausted that her body feels like it needs the rest.
I haven’t moved from her side. I sat beside her bed and watched her sleep through the night-or what was remaining of it-then I watched as her eyes fluttered up in the morning, and then as she cried herself back to sleep a little while ago.
There’s still blood under my nails, dark and dry now, a quiet reminder of what I did to a man who doesn’t deserve my mercy. I’ll scrub it away later. For now, it stays—proof of what happened last night, a quiet reminder in the aftermath of the violence I gladly carried for her.Gladly.
Somewhere just before midday, her eyes flutter open.
A small crease forms between her brows, confusion knitting as she orients herself. She looks smaller in sleep, softer—nothing like the woman who fought for air in her own bedroom hours ago.
“You’re still here.”
Her voice is rough, sleep-worn. Soft and broken.
I say nothing. Because the truth is simple and dangerous: I can’t stop watching her breathe.
She pushes herself upright, hair a mess, blanket slipping off one shoulder. The space between us is barely anything—just air, just the ghosts of things neither of us has voiced. Her eyes track over me slowly, carefully, like she’s taking inventory. The cuts on my knuckles. The bruising already blooming. The faint tremor in my hands I haven’t quite managed to still.
The kind of look that strips the meticulously constructed walls I’ve built around myself.
“How long did I sleep?” she whispers.
“You need your rest.”
“I need to go home, Justin.”
