He stops typing.
Looks at me.
In his eyes I find no judgment.
Only understanding.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know. Still makes you a huge pain in the ass though.”
He slips the phone into his pocket.
“Besides,” he lets out a short sigh. “I don’t think I could do it to her either, brother.”
Neither of us speaks after that.
Because there is nothing else to say.
Her hair is down now, no longer hidden or restrained, but alive in a mass of wild red curls that tumble halfway down her back in soft, untamed waves, the color of it burning against the pale gold of the morning light as though it belongs to fire instead of flesh. There is no makeup on her face, nothing to conceal her, nothing to refine or sharpen what is already devastating in its honesty, and she looks so young like this, so fresh and unguarded and painfully beautiful that it hits me in two places at once—deep in my chest, where love lives, and low in my body, where hunger does—and I have to curl my hand into a fist for a second just to steady myself before I reach for her.
She doesn’t hesitate when I take her hand, her fingers slipping between mine with easy trust, and I hold on as Chace leads us out of the suite, pausing only long enough for me to pocket the keycard in the back of my sweats, my attention already half gone to the woman beside me, to the quiet warmth of her, to the miracle of her being here at all.
Blessed. I’m blessed.
My ribs ache with every step, a dull, persistent reminder of yesterday’s violence, of the way my father’s knuckles split against my skin and the way mine returned the favor without mercy, and the loose grey sweats and black T-shirt had been less a choice this morning and more a necessity, because anything tighter would have pressed too closely against damage I’m not interested in examining yet.
Yet, I persist. I survive. I should have thought ahead, should have pulled on a cap, should have done something to obscure myself before stepping out into a public space where my face belongs less to me than it does to everyone else, but it hadn’t mattered in the moment, and it doesn’t matter now, not when I glance at Chace and see that he’s made the same decision, his blonde head bare, his identity as exposed as mine.
If we get recognized, we get recognized.
There are worse things in this world than being seen.
There are worse men who could come looking.
The elevator doors slide open with a quiet chime, and we step inside, mirrors rising up on every side to reflect us back at ourselves, and I catch sight of the three of us together in the glass—Chace standing tall and watchful, Seraphina vibrant by my side, and me, somewhere between the two, looking more like a man with something to lose than I ever have before. I pull her closer without thinking, my arm settling around her shoulders, my hand resting against her upper arm as though it has always belonged there, as though it always will.
Chace’s phone vibrates in his hand, the sound soft but enough to pull my attention, and I watch the moment he reads whatever message has come through, watch the subtle easing of his posture, the way some invisible tension drains out of him before he lifts his eyes to mine and gives me a small, confirming nod.
Security is in place.
I lace my fingers more securely with hers just as the elevator doors open again, and she steps forward immediately, her grip tightening as she pulls me with her, not waiting, not hesitating, but moving with a quiet eagerness that sends something dangerously close to emotion crawling up my throat.
She leads me.
Not the other way around.
Maybe I am a little slower…
Think there are arguments to say, to suggest that I have always been slow.
Quick witted though, bee-oo-tch.
Attaboy, can’t balance a cheque book for shit, but you can quip like one of those sassy old bastards from The Muppets.
I don’t think I have a cheque book?
Shut up…
She leads me down the corridor like someone rediscovering the world one step at a time, her face lit with open wonder, her eyes wide as they move over everything—the lights, the space, the simple, ordinary freedom of it—and I find myself watching her instead of where we’re going, memorizing the expression, committing it to whatever part of me keeps the things I can’t afford to forget.
