I should go. That’s what makes sense, and it’s what I’ve done every other time when she’s needed me to. I leave before she regrets it, before she can take it back, before she remembers she’s supposed to be afraid of me.
Every other time we’ve interacted, it’s been because I made it happen. I pushed for a response, or a reaction, or a fucking ounce of acknowledgement.
But this time, she gave it to me willingly. She called me. She grabbed my wrist. And, even though I’m sure the circumstances of why she’s even allowing this right now are fucked, she wanted me here.
So I stay where I am, even though it goes against everyinstinct I have. Even though I already know how this ends. Tomorrow morning will come, and she’ll pull back. She’ll pretend this didn’t happen, and she’ll put distance between us like she always does.
But tonight, I’m here.
And that’s all that fucking matters.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dahlia
I wakeup with my eyes closed. For a few precious seconds, nothing happens. Everything is fine, my past hasn’t clawed its way back into the present, and my mind hovers in that quiet space between sleep and consciousness.
I cling to that feeling, hoping it might stay. Then my brain comes back online and the events of last night trickle in.
Christian is out.
Panic settles deep in my gut, just as it did last night, but thankfully, the tears don’t follow.
Breathe. You’re okay.
I keep my eyes closed and try to ground myself by slowly taking in every sensation. The feel of the soft couch beneath me. The puffiness of my eyes. The ache in my shoulders that never seems to go away.
The presence of someone else.
My eyes snap open and I find Echo asleep on the couch across from me. He’s lying on his back with one arm tucked behind his head and the other draped across his stomach. His face is relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before, and his breathing is deep enough that I know he’s really out.
He stayed the night.
I never let anyone stay the night. It’s not a hard set rule or anything. It’s just something I don’t do.
Nights are easy to compartmentalize. Mornings aren’t. Mornings come with expectations and conversations that assume continuity. There’s something about the daylight that makes things feel way more intimate.
I scan the space around us, taking it all in. The blanket draped over me. The empty mugs on the coffee table. The faint imprint his boots left on the doormat before he kicked them off. All proof that this isn’t a dream.
I sit there for another minute, letting the reality of the situation sink in.
There’s a killer sleeping on my couch. The same killer who’s been openly stalking me and has crossed countless boundaries since the night we met. The same killer I’ve been stupidly hooking up with, despite knowing all of that.
In my space. In myhome.So why the hell is my heart pounding for an entirely different reason?
I look at Echo, unabashedly, and study everything about him. His long dark lashes fanning across his cheeks. His full brows framing his face perfectly. The way his lips downturn slightly, even while sleeping, like he’s been sad his whole life. He looks younger like this. Less guarded. Almost peaceful.
I mindlessly wonder if anyone else has ever seen him this way.
I know what he’s capable of. I’ve seen it firsthand. And yet, when I look at him, I don’t see a monster. I see a man, a beautiful one at that, both inside and out. And I don’t know what that says about me.
This is ridiculous.
Whatever my brain is doing right now needs to fucking stop.
I slide one foot off the couch, then the other, and carefully rise from the couch. The cushion creaks under my weight, and I wince.
“Bambi.” He calls out, his voice slow and sleepy.
