I give a dramatic eye roll with a smile tugging at my lips.
“Fine, chef. Surprise me. Just don’t expect me to help—you know my cooking skills are limited to toast and boiling water.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against me. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I got it covered.”
We go quiet for a moment, his arms wrapped around me, and I close my eyes, feeling the steady thud of his heart under my cheek.
Fuck. I love this.
The warmth of him, the solidness—it’s enough to make the chaos of everything else fade into the background. His fingers trace lines down my back, and I match my breathing to his like we’re the only two people in the world right now. Just us, nothing else.
CREAK.
The old pipes creak in the wall, snapping me out of it, reminding me we’re still here in this house with its half-broken parts. I let out a small sigh, lifting my head just a little, my fingers tapping a rhythm on his chest.
“Hey, speaking of fixing stuff,” I murmur, my eyes narrowing as I glance toward the window. “That damn fence out back. You think we should patch it up, or do we need a guy for that?”
His fingers halt, his body going rigid for a second. It’s subtle, but I feel it immediately, that shift from relaxed to something else. He shifts under me, his gaze drifting away, no longer focused.
“Yeah, we’ll get to that…soon,” he starts, his voice a bit too careful, too distant.
My frown deepens, and I push myself up a bit more, enough to see his face fully. His eyes won’t meet mine, and that sends a weird twist into my gut.
“Fuck, D, what’s wrong?” My voice comes out sharper, demanding an answer. “D, spit it out.”
He turns his head toward me, eyes locking onto mine, and there’s something in them—a seriousness that wasn’t there before. His jaw clenches, and he takes a slow breath, like he’s trying to find the right words.
“We need to pack,” he says, his voice almost a murmur.
I blink, my brows pulling together.
No. Fucking. Way.
“Pack? For what?”
I feel my stomach twist painfully. I swear to God, if we’re on the run again, I’ll lose it. I thought we were finally out of that nightmare, that we could just breathe for a damn second without looking over our shoulders.
I search his face, my pulse already speeding up, and my mouth goes dry. “Are we in trouble?”
He hesitates, and I see it—the way he searches my eyes, the vulnerability that slips through, just for a second. Then he gives me a small, almost sheepish smile.
“We’re leaving in three days,” he says, his grin widening just a little.
“Leaving to go where?” I’m almost shouting.
“How do you feel about Hawaii?”
91
Wren
It’s been a week.
My olive skin’s got that deep, warm tone, like I’m some goddamn goddess sculpted from bronze and gilded with a bright yellow bikini, perfectly matching the Hawaiian sun’s golden rays.
Not complaining, though.
The breeze coming in from the waves feels like silk against my skin. I look at Sophia, sprawled out next to me on the lounge chair, her eyes hidden behind oversized shades. Her bikini’s some pale blue number that matches the water. She’s even got that stupid fruity drink with the umbrella—something Luka probably insisted on.
