The words came out before I could stop them. Too honest. Too close to the truth. I felt him tense beneath me, just slightly—enough that I knew he'd heard it the way I meant it.
The air between us went thick, like one wrong breath could shatter everything. I waited for him to laugh it off, to make a joke. He didn't.
"Alena..." His voice was rough, careful.
"You're the only permanent thing I have," I said. "The only thing that doesn't fade or disappear or turn into a nightmare. You're the only real thing."
His arms tightened around me. For a moment, I thought he might say it—whatever truth we'd been dancing around for seventeen years. But instead, he just kissed the top of my head and pulled me closer.
Safe. Brotherly. Exactly what I was afraid of.
"You're not losing me," he said quietly. "Not ever. You know that, right?"
I did. And that was the problem. Because I knew if I ever kissed him the way I wanted to, if I ever crossed that line, and it didn't work—if we tried and failed—I wouldn't just lose a lover. I'd lose everything. My home. My safe place. My only family.
So instead, I stayed curled against his chest, breathing him in, pretending this was enough.
We stayed like that, staring up at stars that London was busy hiding, beer after beer. I could see the exhaustion in him, but he stayed—for me. So I could breathe.
He held me like I was fragile glass.
"Bed?" I whispered.
He tossed the last empty can in the bin, then scooped me up. He never let me walk on cold floors.
Through the house he carried me, laid me down gently, and with a casual flick peeled off his trousers.
"Come here, you terrifying beast."
He opened his arms, and I melted into him, my cheek pressed against my name tattooed over his heart. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was the only lullaby that ever worked.
He pulled me closer, one hand sliding under the hoodie to rest low on my bare back—skin on skin, like he needed proof I was really there. His hand slides lower, palm flat against the small of my back, fingers brushing the edge of lace. He doesn't move further. Just stays there, warm and steady, like he's claiming the skin without crossing the line.
His hand is warm, possessive almost, spanning my lower back. I feel his heartbeat under my cheek, steady and strong.
And I wonder, not for the first time, if he'll ever let himself take more than this. Or if I'll always be the one burning alone.
Just before I drifted off, I felt his fingers in my hair again. Always my hair. Always making sure he could see my face.
"Goodnight, baby," he whispered.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He ignores it, pulls me closer.
Whatever it is can wait. I can't lose this. Not tonight.
I was already gone, safe in the only place I'd ever belonged.
5
DROGO
I woke up with my hand under her hoodie, cupping her bare breast.
This wasn't new. Seventeen years of sleeping in the same bed will do that—your body finds familiar territory in the dark. My thumb had traced her nipple in my sleep, and now it was hard against my palm.
I should pull away. I know I should.
But I can't help it.
