Matt shakes his head, a crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess you never had it in you to want normal.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He pulls up to her house and cuts the engine.
“For what it’s worth, if anyone was going to make you reckless enough to try a relationship, I’m glad it’s her.”
I open the door. “Me too.”
Her house is dimly lit when I walk up the drive. I pause at thedoor and take a deep breath. The front door opens before I can knock. She’s there—dressed and ready to go, a small bag at her side. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, damp strands escaping at her nape.
She’s steadier than she was when I left, but the faint shadow at her throat tells the truth her posture tries to hide. Her eyes lock onto mine and don’t let go.
Something in my chest loosens. Relief hits harder than the fight ever did.
Thisis the dangerous part—not moving the body, not Helene, not the games people think they’re clever enough to play.
It’s Laurette standing here, waiting for me like I’m already hers… and she’s already mine.
I cross the distance, but I don’t touch her right away. I simply look—taking her in, making sure nothing changed while I was gone.
“You’re okay?”
She nods once and closes the remaining space between us. I pull her in, shielding her throat, keeping her tucked against me. Her fingers curl into my shirt and don’t let go.
This—she and I—probably won’t work. But there’s a slight chance it could, and that makes it worth the risk. I’d destroy everything I’ve ever built to keep her safe from danger.
I open the passenger door of my Escalade. She doesn’t pause or look back, just gets in where she belongs beside me.
I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. Her hand rests on the console, and I claim it without a word. She laces her fingers with mine and doesn’t let go.
I drive, my eyes on the mirrors and shadows. Years of habit don’t dissolve because she’s safe for now.
But somewhere between the red lights and green, between the ache in my chest and the pulse in hers, my thumb brushes across her knuckles. And for the first time tonight, I let myself breathe.
My house sits back from the road, half-hidden by trees and shadow. No gates or guards. Nothing that announces what it’s worthor who lives inside. Just quiet confidence and a privacy money buys when it doesn’t need to prove itself.
I pull into the drive and she studies the house, taking it in. The lines are clean. The landscaping is deliberate without being showy. Motion lights tucked where they belong. Cameras placed where they’re useful, not obvious. A security that doesn’t want attention.
I step out first, circle around, and open her door.
Inside, everything is intentional. Dark wood. Stone. Lighting designed to reveal only what needs to be seen.
Her gaze moves from the ceiling to the floor to the wide windows that look out into nothing but trees and night.
“I love your house.” Her eyes move over the clean lines and bare surfaces, nothing softened by habit or history. “It’s very masculine.”
“Simple. That’s how I like things to be.”
She smirks. “Are you sure about that?”
No photographs. No throw pillows. No trace of anyone else having tried to make it gentler. The space hasn’t been shaped around anyone. It’s sharp and efficient.
“You’re safe here.”
She turns to me, eyes steady. “I know.”
And the way she says it tells me she’s not talking about locks or cameras or the distance from the street.
