“I’m honest.”
I stare at him. “That’s worse.”
His gaze doesn’t move from my face. “You feel safe with me.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
I swallow. “Yes.”
“And that’s making everything else hit you,” he says.
My throat tightens. Because he’s right. I nod once.
Sin’s expression shifts again, the hard edges rearranging. Not soft, exactly. Just… aware. “You’re not alone,” he says. The words land in my chest like warmth.
I blink, suddenly stupidly emotional. “You don’t get to say comforting things like that when you look like you could snap a door in half.”
His mouth curves, barely. “I can do both.”
My heart does a somersault, dramatic and embarrassing. I look away quickly, because if I keep staring at him, I’m going to do something reckless. Like ask him to kiss me. Which is exactly what my brain has been chanting since breakfast.
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.
But the thought is there anyway, bright and insistent. His mouth on mine. The heat of him. The way his restraint might finally crack. I grip my mug tighter.
Sin’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Rowan.”
I look up.
His eyes are steady, but his jaw is tense, like he’s fighting something too.
“What?” I whisper.
“We’re going to figure out who did this,” he says. “And we’re going to stop them.” It sounds like a promise.
I nod, because my voice is gone.
He picks up his mug again, taking a sip like he didn’t just rearrange my entire emotional infrastructure. I watch him over the rim of my coffee. He’s gorgeous. Yes. But more than that, he’s solid.
He’s smart. And focused. And somehow, he’s the only person in the world right now who makes me feel like I can breathe. Which is ridiculous, because I met him yesterday. But the truth doesn’t care how long you’ve known someone. It just shows up. And right now, the truth is this.
I want to kiss Sinclair Hawthorne.
And I need him to keep me alive. Those two things should not exist in the same sentence. Yet here we are.
SEVEN
SIN
The safe house has a way of shrinking time. No schedules. No traffic noise. No city hum. Just trees outside the windows, a quiet that presses in, and the steady awareness that someone out there wants Rowan afraid enough to stop talking.
Rowan sits on the couch with her legs tucked under her, coffee mug cradled in both hands like it’s an anchor. Her hair is pulled into a loose knot, but strands keep slipping free and brushing her cheek. She should look disheveled. Instead, she looks like temptation wearing a casual outfit.
I stay standing near the window, posture relaxed on purpose, attention split between the tree line and the woman behind me. It’s a bad equation. She’s safe here.
I’m not.
