Then, he’s gone. The room falls silent.
“Guy?” I call out, my voice raspy. Silence. “Guy!”
“I’m here.” He smooths his hand over my back, and I let out a breath of relief when he kisses my spine. “I’m here.”
“I thought you left me.” My voice cracks, and I hate that tears fill my eyes. Another kiss, this time on my shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Goose bumps shiver across me as Guy cleans me with a warm, wet cloth. Once he’s finished, he uncuffs me, rubbing my arms to work blood back into them before lying beside me and pulling me into his arms.
We’re breathless as we lie together, absorbing what we’ve done. The line we’ve crossed, and how this changes everything.
With my head resting on Guy’s chest, I whisper, “Lina.” Lifting up slightly, our eyes lock. I can’t regret what we’ve done, and I won’t regret this. “My real name is Lina.”
We work in comfortable silence.While Guy cuts up fruit, I slice bread, preparing a board for us to snack from. I’m in his T-shirt and he’s in his sweats, glorious body on display. When I finish with the bread, I slide my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his back. Just to feel him. Just to be close.
The last time I told someone my real name, I was sixteen. The moment I decided to become Monty, I didn’t look back. I’ve had hundreds of names since that point, but I always came back to Monty because it was safest. To me, Lina died when my parents and sister did.
Now, someone else knows. The chief of police, of all people.
But when he turns in my arms, cups my face, and kisses me, there’s not even the smallest part of me that regrets it.
“Hungry, Lina?”
Tears fill my eyes and I extend the kiss, holding onto him. “Say my name again.”
“Lina,” he whispers, kissing my nose. “Lina.” A kiss on my cheek. My chin. “My Lina.” He kisses away my tears, and then my arms are around his neck—and I’m sobbing. Fourteen years of pain pours out of me and into him and he holds onto me as I cry, my chest jerking with sobs.
His Lina.
I’ve never been anybody’s before.
No one has ever wanted me enough.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers, and I nod, sniffing. He picks me up and carries me to the couch, and I cuddle into him, the board of food balanced on his lap as we eat.
“So, you’re really British then.”
I laugh quietly. “Yes. Did you think I was faking the accent?”
“You never know.” He eats a strawberry, then feeds me one.
I moan. “We need more of them. Those are the last. I’ll go to the store tomorrow.”
“Don’t hit anyone while you’re there,” he says, and I roll my eyes. “Can I know everything about you?”
For the first time, that question doesn’t anger or frustrate me. It makes me feel honored—honored that Guy Gibson wants to know.
“My name is Lina Fox.”
“Fox,” he says, and Fox the dog lifts his head from the rug, his tail wagging.
I smile. “I know. At first, I thought calling him that was your way of telling me you knew, but it was just a wild coincidence.” I eat another strawberry.
“Keep going,” Guy says quietly.
“I was born in Bath, England. I’m thirty years old, and I had a sister called Ava. She died when I was sixteen, and so did my parents. I was left everything, and we grew up wealthy, so I didn’t need anything, but I didn’t want to stay in England, either. So, I came to America.” He puts his arm around me, and now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “I was never a rebellious kid, but my family’s death must have messed me up because when I came here, I was a different person. I started fights on purpose, got my arse kicked a fair few times.” He laughs and kisses my temple, and I smile. “Then I met someone who kind of put me on a path to this.”
