She's protecting you.
The thought slammed into me like a body check.
She was letting Nate parade her around. Letting him kiss her. Touch her. Claim her in front of the world.
All so I wouldn't lose everything.
And I'd repaid her by shoving my son into a wall and nearly blowing both our covers.
I leaned against the shelf. Closed my eyes. Tried to breathe through the rage. But all I could think about was the way she'd looked at me. Like she was waiting for me to say the words we both knew were true.
You're mine.
I just didn't know if I'd ever be brave enough to admit it.
I opened my eyes. Looked at her. Really looked. Hair still damp from the game. Cheeks flushed. That Crestwood hoodie hanging loose on her frame, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She'd tucked her hands into the front pocket. Defensive. Guarded.
But her eyes gave her away. Tired. Wounded. Fighting so hard to hold it together that I could see the cracks forming. And she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
It wrecked me.
Completely. Utterly. Wrecked me.
Because I'd done this. I'd put that exhaustion in her eyes. I'd made her carry weight she shouldn't have to lift. I'd taken something good and twisted it into something that hurt her.
And I still wanted her. Still ached for her in ways that had nothing to do with the ice or the whistle or the lines we'd crossed.
I pushed off the shelf. Moved toward her slowly. Like approaching something wild and wounded.
"Come on," I murmured. Kept my voice low. Gentle. "Let's get you home."
She stopped in the doorway. Hand on the frame like she needed it to hold her up.
"I don't want to go home."
The words came out small. Quiet. Nothing like the fire I'd seen on the ice.
I didn't hesitate.
"Come with me."
My apartment looked smallerwith her in it. Like she took up more space than her frame should allow. She stood in the middle of my kitchen, arms wrapped around herself, eyes tracking the cracks in the ceiling.
I filled the kettle. Found the coffee I'd bought weeks ago and never touched. Measured it out while she pulled herself onto one of the stools at the counter.
Her sleeves were too long. Pulled down over her hands. Fingers barely visible where they gripped the fabric.
"You don't have to talk," I said. Kept my voice low. Steady. "Just drink the coffee when it's ready."
She nodded. Didn't look at me.
I set the mug in front of her a few minutes later. Black. No sugar. She wrapped both hands around it like she needed the warmth more than the caffeine.
And then I saw a shadow along her jaw. Faint. Purple-green at the edges. Shaped like a thumbprint.
My hand froze halfway to my own mug.
"Billie."
