I shake my head, fingers tracing his jaw. “Never.”
He exhales. Then he kisses me again, slower, every movement threaded with emotion. His hands trail up my back, over my ribs, drawing soft gasps from me that he swallows. The room fades away. There’s only the warmth of him and the slow steady beat of his heart against mine.
He lifts me effortlessly, carries me through the dim apartment to his bedroom, his lips never leaving mine. I catch a glimpse of the city lights through the window before he sets me down. The shedding of clothes happens fast and I drag him down on top of me. The need to feel his skin on mine is intense. He reaches over to the drawer and pulls out a condom. Once he’s sheathed, he looks to me for permission to carry on and, with a brief nod, it’s granted. The rest blurs into heat and motion as he slides inside me on a whisper of my name.
It’s a moment that feels endless.
When it’s over, he stays wrapped around me, chest rising and falling against my back, his hand tracing lazy circles on my hip. His breath steadies, slows. Sleep tugs at him fast.
I lie there in the dark, wide awake, my body still humming, my heart still racing. And when I finally reach for my phone, the screen’s glow feels almost violent against the silence. I shift carefully, easing my phone from the nightstand so I don’t wake him. I scroll mindlessly until a notification stops me cold.
Talia.
Her name floods the screen in a dozen reposts and tags. A photo of her and Callum, which is months old, back when she still had her claws in him, flashes across my feed. She’s laughing in the picture, hand on his chest, his head tilted toward hers. The caption makes my stomach drop.
Some people forget where they came from. Don’t worry, I don’t.
The comments are worse. Some assuming she’s fighting for him. Others saying I’m the reason they broke up. Of course they have no idea who I am, just that they’ve seen a new face at the rink who’s been following him around like a puppy, taking photos of him and the other guys.
My fingers go numb around the phone. Then I get another notification from Instagram.
Funny how fast some people move on. Some girls don’t mind being a rebound.
The photo attached is of the rink. And in the background, barely visible, is me. My chest tightens. I don’t know how she got it, or who she paid, but I can feel the threat beneath the caption like a blade glinting under soft light. The fairy tale’s not done with the villain yet.
I swallow hard and lock my phone, heart pounding. He doesn’t deserve this. Not after everything. I could wake him, tell him what she’s doing, but the thought makes something twist in my chest. He’s finally resting, after weeks of tension, and all the confrontation and noise.
So, I lie there instead, staring into the dark, listening to the rain tapping against the window. His arm tightens around me unconsciously, as if his body knows not to let go. I should tell him. Tomorrow, maybe. When it’s not so raw. When I can say it without my voice shaking. But for now, I stay still, his heartbeat against my back, the storm building quietly beyond the walls.
Talia isn’t finished.
And I have a feeling this peace won’t last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CALLUM
The first thing I notice is warmth. Soft, steady warmth pressed against my chest. Rose’s hair tickles my chin, her breathing slow and even. For a long moment, I just lie there, memorising the weight of her, the scent of her shampoo, the way we’re tangled together as though she’s been there forever.
It’s early, pale light slipping between the blinds. The city beyond the glass is still. My muscles ache from yesterday’s training, but it’s the good kind of ache. The kind that reminds you you’re alive. I shift slightly and she murmurs something in her sleep, a soft sound that punches straight through my chest. She’s wearing my T-shirt, and it’s slipping off one shoulder. My hand drifts to her waist, fingers tracing idle circles against her skin. She stirs, eyes fluttering open, hazy and beautiful.
“Morning,” she whispers, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning,” I murmur back.
There’s a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re staring.”
“Can you blame me?” I say, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “Not every morning looks like this.”
She hums, stretching before curling back into me. “You planning to let me get up at some point?”
“Eventually,” I say. “Might take some convincing though.”
Her laugh vibrates against my chest. “Coffee would do it.”
I groan. “You’re cruel.”
But I go anyway. Because for once, I want to do the little things, like make her coffee and toast, the works. She sits at the counter wearing my shirt with her hair a mess and her legs bare, she looks like sin wrapped in sunshine. When I set her mug down, she grins.
