He tightens his grip. "Get some sleep. I’ll be awake."
I know he will be. While I sleep, his eyes will be on the door, on the monitors, on the shadows. The monster is guarding his treasure. Finally, I can rest.
6
BLAKE
The forge below us sits cold, the fires dampened for the night, but the heat in the loft is suffocating. Good. It’s a thick, heavy warmth smelling of sex, of my cum drying on her thighs, and the honey-scented shampoo I’ve tracked from a distance for three months.
Now, that scent fills my lungs.
Tiffany sleeps curled into the hollow of my side, her breathing a soft, rhythmic hitch against my ribs. Her hair spills like a chaotic curtain of midnight across my dark sheets, tangled from my fingers, from the way I gripped her while I buried myself inside her.
I haven’t slept. Sleep feels impossible.
Sunlight bleeds through the high, reinforced windows, casting long, gray shadows across the industrial concrete of my home. Usually, I’m patrolling by now. Checking the perimeter. Verifying the structural integrity of the gate. But I can't move. If I shift, I might wake her. If I wake her, the reality of theworld outside—her ex-husband, the threat, the war coming to my doorstep—comes rushing back in.
For now, in this gray dawn, I just want to watch her.
My hand rests on her hip, thumb tracing the curve of bone and the soft yield of flesh. I’ve memorized her shape through shop windows and telephoto lenses. I’ve watched her stretch to reach the top shelf of her display case. I’ve watched her rub the small of her back after a double shift. I’ve cataloged every movement, every wince, every smile she faked for customers.
But watching her like this? Feeling the steady thrum of her pulse against my palm? The sensation claws at my gut.
I know exactly what I am capable of doing to keep this. I am not a good man. I killed men overseas for a flag, and I’ve hurt men here for a patch. I am a weapon the Gunnars point at problems. I live in a fortress of steel and fire because I don’t fit in the soft world she inhabits.
Yet, here she is. In the monster’s bed. Sleeping like she’s safe.
The thought tightens my chest, a physical ache resembling a cracked rib. Safe. That’s the only thing that matters.
Her eyelids flutter, the rhythm of her breathing shifting. A small sound, a whimper of a dream, escapes her lips. My hand tightens reflexively on her hip, grounding her.
"I've got you," I say, voice rough with disuse and the gravel of the morning. "You're good, Tiff. I've got you."
Her eyes open slowly, hazy with sleep. For a split second, panic flares—the muscle memory of waking up in a house where she wasn't safe. She stiffens, breath hitching. Then her eyes focus onmy face, on the scars running down my neck, on the dark ink of my tattoos.
Her body melts against mine.
That reaction hits me harder than a bullet to the plate carrier. She sees me—the scarred, silent giant who kidnapped her—and her instinct is to soften.
"Blake," she whispers, voice thick. She shifts, bare leg sliding between mine, skin hot against my rougher texture.
"Morning." I brush a strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. My fingers feel too large, too calloused against her porcelain skin. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I have in years," she admits, a small, sad smile touching her lips. She traces a line across my chest, following the ridge of an old knife wound. "Did you watch me the whole time?"
I don't lie to her. I’m done with secrets. "Yes."
She doesn't flinch. Instead, she presses closer, burying her face in the crook of my neck. "Thanks."
The word comes muffled against my skin, sending a shockwave through my nervous system. She accepts the darkness in me because it stands between her and the thing she fears. She accepts the monster at the door because the monster is hers.
"Hungry?" I ask, needing to provide something. My instincts scream at me to secure the perimeter, to check the cameras, but my need to take care of her is louder.
"Starving," she murmurs.
"Don't move."
I extricate myself from the tangle of limbs, missing her warmth the second the cool air hits my skin. I pull on sweatpants, leaving my chest bare. I don't feel the cold. I never have.
