Or adrenaline.
It was real.
And it was war.
She stepped away from the past, from safety, from legacy?—
And into me.
Into fire.
Into whatever hell we were about to build together.
And I’d burn the fucking world down before I let anyone drag her out of it.
My jaw was locked so tight I could hear the pressure crack in my ears.
Fists still clenched.
Breath shallow.
Not speaking. Not yet.
Kennedy walked beside me, her steps sharp and slow like she was made of blade and flame—dangerous, untouchable, barely holding together.
She didn’t look at me.
I felt her before I saw her move—her hand slipping into mine.
Small. Warm.
Fierce as hell.
That was it.
The fuse.
The anchor.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered, voice soft and ragged like it had been scraped raw.
I didn’t look at her. Didn’t break stride. “Didn’t even think about it.”
And I hadn’t.
The second that bastard opened his mouth and threw dirt on her name, something in me snapped.
No logic. No restraint.
Just red.
Just her.
Silence stretched between us, tight and thick.
“You still want to marry me?”
I looked down.
