Once we’re in the car, doors closed against the outside world, he turns to me, his expression serious. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We had a plan, but things moved faster than we expected.”
“Lennon filled me in on some of it,” I tell him, starting the engine. “She seems to think it’s all going to work out.”
“It will,” he says with quiet confidence. “Noah overplayed his hand, and the Morrisons are about to have bigger problems than us tomorrow.”
I navigate out of the parking lot, heading toward home—our home, I remind myself with a small thrill despite the circumstances. It still feels strange to think of Devlin’s cabin as mine too, but in the best possible way.
“What happened exactly?” I ask as we drive, needing to understand all of it.
He tells me about Austin’s warning, about Noah and the deputies bursting into the barn, about the arrest, and about Noah’s unnecessary violence. His voice remains steady, but I can see the tension in the set of his shoulders and hear the controlled anger when he describes Noah striking him.
“He wanted me to fight back,” Devlin explains. “Give him an excuse to escalate. But that’s not how this game is played.”
“This isn’t a game,” I say, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “This is your life, Devlin. Your freedom.”
He reaches over, placing his hand on my thigh, the warmth of it seeping through my jeans. “I know that. But trust me, we’ve got this under control. This isn’t the first tight spot I’ve been in, and it won’t be the last.”
Something about his calm certainty steadies me. This is the man who survived multiple combat tours, who built a life for himself from nothing when he returned. If anyone can navigate this storm, it’s him.
The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence, his hand remaining on my leg. It’s exactly what I need to ground me and remind me he’s actually here with me.
When we pull up to the cabin, the sight of it fills me with relief—the solid wooden walls, the porch where we’ve spent so many evenings, the rocking chairs side by side facing the mountains.
“It’s good to be home,” Devlin says softly, as if reading my thoughts.
Inside, the half-finished shelving units still sit in the living room, a reminder of the life we were planning before everything went sideways. Devlin stands in the middle of the room, looking around as if seeing it for the first time, or maybe just appreciating it in a new way after his brief confinement.
“You should clean up,” I tell him, gesturing to his face. “Let me get you some ice for that bruise.”
He catches my wrist as I turn toward the kitchen, pulling me back against his chest. “In a minute,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “Right now, I just want to hold you.”
I melt into him, letting his strength envelop me. His hands slide up my back, into my hair, tilting my face up to his. The kiss is gentle, mindful of his injured lip, but there’s an intensity behind it that steals my breath.
“I was so scared,” I confess when we break apart. “When Lennon called and said you’d been arrested…”
“I know,” he says, his forehead resting against mine. “But I’m here now, and nothing—not Noah, not the Morrisons, nothing—is going to take me away from you. I promise.”
There’s a fierce certainty in his voice that makes me believe him, despite all evidence to the contrary, despite the charges hanging over his head, and despite the powerful men aligned against him.
His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking over my cheekbones. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper, and I mean it. “I believe you.”
His expression shifts, a hunger replacing the tenderness. His next kiss is deeper, more urgent, his hands dropping to my hips to pull me firmly against him. I respond instantly, my body recognizing what we both need right now, to connect with one another and make sure both of us are okay.
My fingers find the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath to touch warm skin. He makes a sound low in his throat, half growl, half groan, and suddenly we’re moving, stumbling toward the bedroom, shedding clothes as we go.
When we tumble onto the bed, the familiarity surrounds me—the laundry detergent I picked out last week, the subtle musk that’s uniquely Devlin. It smells like home, like safety, and everything I’ve always wanted.
His body covers mine, solid and warm, his weight the most welcome pressure I’ve ever felt. I run my hands over every inch of him I can reach, reassuring myself that he’s here, he’s whole, he’s mine. My lips run up and down his flesh, wanting to imprint myself on every part of him.
“I love you,” I whisper against his skin, as he presses his length deep into my body. “I love you so much.”
“Atlee,” he breathes my name as he presses in and pulls out of me. “My Atlee.”
There’s a desperation in our lovemaking that’s never been there before. The reality of knowing it could be pulled away from us as quickly as we got it has me pressing my head back against the pillow and glancing up at Devlin. His face is a mask of passion as he presses his knees against the mattress and completely decimates my body.
He’s a man on a mission as he reaches down between us and presses his thumb to my clit, causing me to fall apart in his arms. As my body grips his, he throws his head back and grunts as I feel his release. Panting, I try to slow down my pounding heart.
