"I love you too, sweetheart." Because Malachi's phone call is sitting on the floor, a grenade with the pin half out, I say, "Whatever's waiting on that phone can wait a little longer."
She tenses, just a second. She knows too. "Five more minutes."
"Ten. Non-negotiable."
She lets out what's almost a laugh, and presses closer. We both know the clock is running. We both know what's outside this room. But we hold on anyway.
Chapter 34
Sloane
Themorningafterourstolen day, I wake to warmth. My body still hums, muscles loose in places that were locked for weeks, skin warm where Knox's hands mapped me in the dark. His arm is still heavy around my waist, hand curved as though it belongs there, thumb resting above my hip bone as if he fell asleep mid-claim and never let go. The house is quiet in that early way where even the walls seem to be holding their breath. His chest rises steady behind me, warm through my shirt.
I stay still longer than I need to. Partly because I don't want to break the shape we're in.
His breath brushes the back of my neck. The scrape of his beard against my shoulder is rough in a way that should make me tense, but doesn't. Not anymore.
"Morning," he murmurs, thick with sleep and want, his hand tightening just enough to remind me he's awake.
I don't turn. Just let my fingers find his forearm, tracing the veins as though I'm counting something I don't want to lose. "You sound smug"
A low huff rumbles through his chest into my spine. "I am smug."
"About what?"
"Waking up with my wife wrapped around me." He says it as a fact. As a weapon. His mouth finds my nape. "About you not bolting the second you open your eyes."
I swallow, staring at the dim slice of light on the wall. "I'm thinking about it."
"Liar." His thumb strokes that sensitive spot above my hip bone as though he knows exactly where my nerves live. "If you were thinking about running, your breathing would change. You'd already be counting steps to the door."
I hate that he knows that because I love it too much.
I press my back harder into him. "Stop profiling me in bed."
"Can't. It's a compulsion."
His arm tightens, a subtle tug that brings me flush, and I feel the patient coil of his want. Not demanding. Just there, constant as breathing.
"Did you sleep?" I ask, because I need an anchor that isn't the way his mouth keeps brushing my skin.
"Yeah." Another kiss, to my collarbone where the blanket's slipped. "First full night without waking up in weeks."
I let that settle. The last few days have been a grindstone. Sirens. Blood. The kind of fear that turns bones to glass. Herehe is, wrapped around me in the quiet, admitting something soft without flinching.
My fingers curl around his forearm. "Good."
"You saying that makes me want to keep you in this bed all day."
I try to make my voice flat. "You can't."
"I can." His palm flattens over my stomach. "I won't. But I can."
"Bossy," I whisper, half accusation, half invitation.
He smiles into my hair. I know. "You love it."
"I tolerate it."
