"Uh-huh."
"Go to sleep, Kristen."
She's quiet for a long moment. I feel her muscles slowly unknot, her body melting into mine by degrees. Her breathing evens out.
I count the seconds between each exhale.
One. Two. Three.
"Nico?"
"Yeah?"
"This is nice." Her voice is soft. Drowsy. "I forgot what this felt like."
What what felt like? I want to ask. Being held? Being wanted?
But I don't ask.
I tighten my arm around her waist.
"Go to sleep," I say again, quieter this time.
And she does.
I don't.
Instead, I lie awake in the dark, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat pulse against my palm.
This is dangerous, the logical part of my brain warns.
But Kristen shifts in her sleep, pressing closer, and I realize with a sick sort of certainty that I don't care.
Let it be dangerous.
Let it destroy me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kristen
The bathroom mirror shows me a woman I barely recognize.
You spent the night in a mafia enforcer's bed. Multiple nights, actually. And you liked it.
I grip the edge of the sink.
"Mommy, I can't find my purple shoes!"
Lily's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Check under the bed, baby."
"I already checked!"
"Check again."
A dramatic sigh echoes from the bedroom. Four years old and already mastering the art of theatrical exasperation. She gets that from me.
