My throat tightens.
"I’m glad you didn't hit him," I say quietly. "You could have. You wanted to, I saw it in your eyes. But you didn't."
West is silent for a beat.
"If I'd dropped him properly," he says finally, "resort security would've been involved. Natalie's family would've found out. Blake's family would've retaliated. And your job—the proof, the money, Grace's tuition—all of it would've been gone. I won't do that to you."
The words land like stones in my chest.
"So you let him swing at you."
"I controlled the situation."
"You protected me."
"Yes."
I pull back, studying his face. The swelling. The bruises. The blood.
This man—this massive, terrifying, controlled man—chose my livelihood over his pride.
He controlled that terrifying, righteous fury. He absorbed Blake’s shove, took my accidental elbow to the face, and still delivered precise, controlled pain–not to Blake’s ego-boosting jawline, but to his gut, where it wouldn’t show in photos.
All to protect my chance at that money. For Grace. For me. He sacrificed his pride, his instinct to destroy the threat, formyfuture.
The lump in my throat is back, bigger this time. Hot tears prick behind my eyes. Not from fear. From something else. Something vast and overwhelming.
"West," I whisper.
He sees the tears. Misreads them. “Hey,” he murmurs, his voice softening. He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear thatescapes.
His eyes meet mine. Gray-blue and steady.
"You’re safe. I'm not letting him hurt you, Jane. Not physically. Not financially. Not at all."
Something in my chest cracks wide open.
I lean forward and kiss him.
Gentle. Careful of his nose.
He makes a low sound in his throat and pulls me closer, his hands settling on my hips.
When I pull back, his eyes are dark.
"Jane."
"Bedroom," I say. "Now."
He doesn't make me ask twice.
We move to the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothes. He's gentle—too gentle—until I bite his shoulder and tell him I'm not going to break.
Then he's not gentle.
He's reverent.
He kisses the marks on my wrists. My throat. The curve of my shoulder. Everywhere Blake touched, West erases.
