“And you’re just fine with that?”
“No.”
“Then why?—”
“Because you’re not doing this alone. He may be obssessed with you, Maddie, but he’s not nearly as obssessed as I am about keeping you safe.”
The words come out rough, certain, final, and something in her expression shifts. Not fear, not defiance, something closer to relief.
She exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping just enough to give it away. “You’re impossible,” she mutters.
“Yep.”
“And stubborn.”
“Hell yeah.”
“And completely overstepping.”
“Definitely.”
Her lips press together, but I see it now, the edge of something softer breaking through.
“You scared me,” I add, quieter.
Her eyes snap back to mine. “Good,” she says automatically.
I shake my head. “Not like that.”
That lands, and she sees it in my expression, in the shift in my tone, in something I don’t give easily.
“I didn’t,” she starts, then stops, because she did.
“Don’t run again,” I say.
It’s not exactly a command, but it’s close.
She hesitates, then nods once, small but real. “Okay.”
For now, that’s enough.
Behind us, the forest shifts again, something moving deeper in the trees, reminding us both that this isn’t over, not even close.
But this time, she’s not facing it alone.
And neither am I.
I reach out before she can say anything else, my hand catching her chin lightly, not forcing, just enough to hold her there. Her words stop instantly, her eyes flicking to my mouth, then back up.
“You don’t get to pretend you don’t feel it,” I say quietly.
Her lips part against my thumb. “I can pretend whatever I want.”
“Not with me.”
The words come out rougher than I intend because my control is thinning, and I can feel it in the way I don’t move my hand away, in the way I stay exactly where I am.
“You think you’re the only one with control here?” she asks, her voice softer now, but still challenging.
