Serenity squeezed my shoulder from beside me. "You're okay. You're both okay."
But her eyes said she'd seen something else. Something she wasn't sharing yet.
We climbed out. The cool air bit through my ruined blouse—still spotted with drops of wine from when the table exploded. Seemed like a lifetime ago.
Quentin's hand settled at the small of my back as we walked to the door. Steady. Grounding. I wanted to lean into it but I wasn't sure my legs would hold if I stopped moving.
Inside, he locked the door. Checked the windows. Set the alarm. Professional. Methodical.
Then he turned to face me and I saw it—the careful control fracturing.
"You're bleeding." His voice cracked on the last word.
I looked down. A thin line of blood ran down my forearm where flying glass had caught me. I hadn't even felt it. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." He crossed to me in three strides. "Bathroom. Now."
I let him guide me down the hall, through his bedroom—masculine, neat, smelling like him—into an en suite with too much white marble.
He sat me on the counter and pulled out a first aid kit.
His hands shook as he cleaned the cut.
"Quentin—"
"Don't." He focused on my arm like it was the most important thing in the world. "Just—let me."
So I did.
I watched him work, this man who'd thrown himself between me and bullets tonight. Who'd fired back without hesitation. Who'd pulled me under that table and covered my body with his own.
The cut wasn't deep. He applied antibiotic ointment, wrapped it with gauze. Professional. Gentle.
When he finished, he didn't move away.
His thumb traced circles on my wrist. Right over my pulse.
"I almost lost you tonight." The words came out broken. "When that first shot hit the window, when they came through the door—" His eyes met mine. "Julia, I couldn't breathe. All I could think was that I'd gotten you killed. That I'd dragged you into this and you were going to die because of me."
"I draggedyouinto this," I corrected. "Or did you forget the part where I'm the mob princess who lied about her identity?"
"I don't care about that." His hands framed my face. "I don't care about any of it. I just need you alive."
My heart hammered. "I'm alive."
"You're alive," he repeated, like he needed to convince himself.
Then he was kissing me—desperate, shaking, tasting like fear and relief and something deeper. I kissed him back with everything I had, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
We'd almost died tonight.
But we hadn't.
We were here. Alive. Together.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to mine.
"Your turn," I said, pulling back enough to see his face. "Let me check you."
