His finger traces the faint line near my hairline—the one most people never notice.
"Car accident. Senior year of high school. I went through the windshield."
His hand stills. "Jesus, Evie."
"I was lucky. The guy driving wasn't." I swallow. "He was drunk. Hit a telephone pole. I walked away with forty stitches and a concussion. He didn't walk away at all."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." But his thumb is stroking my temple now, gentle, like he's trying to soothe a wound that healed years ago. The tenderness of it makes my throat tight, a sharp contrast to the cold granite at my back. I’ve spent so long bracing for impact that I forgot what it felt like to be held still. "I don't usually talk about it."
"Thank you for telling me."
We're quiet for a moment. The dark presses in around us, but it doesn't feel oppressive anymore. It feels safe. Like a cocoon. I think about the years I spent making myself small, fittinginto the spaces others left for me. But this space—this jagged, impossible crevice—is the only place I’ve ever felt truly wide open.
His hand drifts lower. Finds the curve of my waist, the swell of my hip. The touch is different now—still exploratory, but with an edge. A question.
"We should talk," I say, even as my body arches into his palm. "About what this is."
"We should." His mouth finds my throat. Presses a kiss to my pulse point. "In a minute."
"Jon—"
"I know." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. The hunger is still there—dark, unmistakable—but it's tempered now and framed by something softer. “We should talk. This is complicated. We're on a cliff in the middle of nowhere with people trying to kill us, fucking like bunnies.”
"That's a lot of…” I shake my head. “Actually, I have no idea what to say after that.”
His forehead touches mine. “Right now, all I can think about is touching you. Learning you. Taking my time instead of—" He stops. Swallows. "Instead of what we did before."
My breath catches. "What was wrong with before?"
"Nothing. God, nothing." His laugh is strained. "Before was incredible. But before was fast, and desperate, and—" His hand cups my face. "I want to show you something different. I want to show you that you don't have to fight for every breath. If you'll let me."
If I'll let him.
The words hang in the air, a final door waiting to be unlocked. For years, I gave away pieces of myself until there was nothing left but the climb. But Jon isn’t asking for pieces. He’s asking for the whole, un-caged truth of me.
"Okay," I whisper. "Show me."
He does.
TEN
Soft Edges
RIOT
The second timeis nothing like the first.
The first time was fire—all urgency and need, bodies crashing together like we might die if we didn't touch. That was the man I am every other hour of the day: the operator who lives on high-alert, acts on instinct, and moves with a brutal, single-minded focus.
But the second time with Evie is something else entirely. Slower. Deliberate. I’m fighting those instincts now, forcing the lethal part of me—the part that only knows how to break and conquer—to stay locked behind a wall of sheer will. Each touch a question, each response an answer.
I learn her body with intent and purpose.
The spot beneath her ear that makes her breath catch. The curve of her ribs that makes her squirm. The inside of her wrist, where the skin is thin and her pulse flutters against my lips. My hands are calloused, scarred from triggers and cold steel, and it feels like a goddamn miracle—or a lie—to use them this softly. I catalog every reaction, every gasp, every soft sound she tries to swallow.
"Let me hear you," I murmur against her collarbone. "Don't hold back."
