The thought of my husband sends a familiar chill down my spine. But it's different now, muted by the solid presence of the man holding me. For the first time in twelve years, Roman feels like a problem that might actually have a solution instead of an inescapable prison sentence.
Silas's eyes flutter open, immediately focusing on my face with an alertness that speaks of years spent sleeping with one eye open. A slow smile spreads across his lips when he sees me watching him.
“Morning, beautiful.”
The endearment shouldn't make my heart skip, but it does. “Morning.”
His hand comes up to brush my hair away from my face, the gesture so tender it makes my throat tight. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in years.” The truth slips out before I can stop it, and I see the shift in his expression. Satisfaction, maybe. Or possession.
“Good.” His thumb traces along my cheekbone, and I lean into the touch without thinking. “You should move in here. With me.”
I stop breathing, staring numbly at the man inches from my face. Somehow, I must have misheard him. “Silas?—”
“Hear me out.” His voice is calm, reasonable, but I catch the steel underneath. “The trailer you're in is small, impersonal. This one has better security, more space. You could make it your home.”
Home.The word hangs between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. I haven't had a home in a very long time.
Silas's hand slides down to rest on my hip, thumb stroking circles on bare skin. “You're safer here. With me. Where I can protect you if Roman decides to come looking.”
The logical part of my brain knows he's right. The guest performer trailer I'm staying in is basically a glorified closet with locks that wouldn't stop a determined teenager, much less a pissed-off husband with weeks of rage to work out.
But the terrified fifteen-year-old who's been calling the shots for over a decade is screaming at me to run. To put distance between myself and this man who makes me want impossible things.
“I need space to think,” I say, starting to pull away.
His grip tightens, not painful but implacable. “Think about what? Whether you trust me enough to let me take care of you? Whether you're brave enough to stop running long enough to build something real?”
The questions hit too close to home, and I lash out like I always do when someone gets too close. “I'm not some broken bird you can fix with the right combination of orgasms and pretty words.”
“No, you're not.” His eyes burn into mine, completely unrepentant. “You're a survivor. A fighter. A woman who's been through hell and came out the other side with enough steel in her spine to stab a man and walk away.”
The praise makes something warm unfurl in my chest, even as I try to resist it. “Flattery won't?—”
“It's not flattery. It's the truth.” He sits up, pulling me with him until we're face to face. “You're the strongest person I've ever met, little fugitive. And you're also scared out of your fucking mind.”
I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. Because he's right. I am terrified—of him, of this, of wanting something so badly it makes my chest ache.
“What if you get tired of me?” The question slips out before I can stop it, small and vulnerable in the morning quiet.
Something fierce flickers across his face. “What if I don't?”
My throat constricts. “People always do. People always?—”
“I'm not people.” He frames my face with his hands, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I'm not Roman. I'm not whoever else hurt you before him. I'm me, and I want you exactly as you are. Damaged, dangerous, and absolutely fucking magnificent.”
The words wreck me, and suddenly I'm crying. The fear and loneliness and desperate hope I've been afraid to acknowledge come pouring out all at once.
Silas just holds me, one hand stroking my hair while I fall apart in his arms for the second time in twenty-four hours. He doesn't try to fix it, doesn't offer empty platitudes or false promises. Just solid comfort while I purge myself of poison I've been carrying for too long.
When the tears finally subside, I feel like I shed a weight I didn't realize was there until it was gone.
“Okay,” I whisper against his chest.
“Okay?”
“I'll move in. I'll try. But if you start leaving dirty dishes in the sink or hogging the bathroom, I'm out.”
