His voice goes low. “I’ll be there.”
My pulse jumps again, and I hate my body for being so obvious. I nod, turning toward the hallway, then glance back once more.
Sin’s still standing in the living room, watching me like he’s already guarding me. And somehow, that makes the fear ease. I walk to the bedroom, push the door open, and step inside. The bed’s made with crisp sheets. There’s a window with heavy curtains.
I set my tote down and slip out of my shoes, then sit on the edge of the bed, waiting. Sin steps in, filling the doorway like a shadow that decided to become solid. He doesn’t come closer right away. He just looks at me. And the air between us thickens.
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod, voice quiet. “I’m sure.”
He closes the door behind him, not locking it, just shutting out the hall. He crosses the room, slow and controlled, then stops at the side of the bed. His hands go to the hem of his shirt like he’s considering taking it off, then he stops, thinking better of it. He sits on the edge, not touching me yet. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
My heart pounds. I whisper, “Thank you.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Sleep.”
I lie down, pulling the blanket up, suddenly aware of how intimate this is. How dangerous.
Sin shifts on the bed, then leans back against the headboard, sitting upright like a sentry.
A protector.
A wall.
I close my eyes. And for the first time in weeks, I believe him when he says nobody touches me. Because he’s right here. And nothing feels braver than trusting him enough to let myself fall asleep.
FIVE
SIN
Morning comes quiet out here, the kind of quiet that makes you listen harder. I wake before the sun clears the tree line. Not because I slept well. Because I didn’t. My body spent the night in a half-alert, half-hell state, every instinct tuned to the softest sound in the house. A floorboard creak. A branch tapping glass. The subtle shift of Rowan’s breathing when she rolled over. I sat upright against the headboard for hours, watching the door, watching the window, watching her.
That part was the problem.
The window I can handle.
The door I can handle.
Rowan curled under the blanket with her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled silk and her face finally unclenched, that’s what wrecked me.
I’ve done hostage recovery in places that didn’t have names on maps. I’ve held security perimeters while bullets chewed through concrete. I’ve slept in mud, snow, and sand. I don’t getrattled by discomfort. But last night, in a warm bed I wasn’t supposed to share, I had one thought on repeat.
Kiss her.
Just once.
Just to see if her mouth is as sharp as her words. Just to see if she’d melt or fight or both. Just to see if I could forget, for one reckless second, that I’m here to protect her, not want her.
Obviously, I didn’t touch her. In fact, I didn’t move. I watched her sleep and hated myself for how much I liked the peace on her face. Now I’m in the hallway, moving through the safe house with a weapon that’s not visible but is always there, tucked into my waistband, familiar as my own pulse.
The house is built for this. Thick walls. Minimal windows on the ground floor. Heavy curtains. Deadbolts that slide smooth. A security panel in the closet near the entry, tied into cameras and motion sensors that cover the property line. Whoever designed it knew what kind of people would use it.
People like me.
I check the back door first. Lock. Frame. No scuffs. I scan the kitchen window, press my fingers lightly to the glass, feeling for vibration or looseness. It’s solid. I check the pantry next. Canned goods lined up with military neatness. Rice. Beans. Protein bars. Electrolyte packets. Coffee. Tea. A bag of flour no one will touch unless the world ends. The fridge is stocked too. Eggs. Bacon. Chicken breasts. Greek yogurt. Fresh fruit. A gallon of milk. A carton of orange juice that looks optimistic. I open the freezer. Ice. Frozen vegetables. A couple vacuum-sealed steaks.
Good.
