Page 33 of Gunnar

I pull the covers over her, tucking them around her shoulders, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety. She watches me with heavy eyes, her lashes fluttering, the adrenaline crash pulling her under even though she fights to stay awake. “Get some rest,” I whisper, brushing her hair back from her face, my fingers tracing the line of her cheekbone and the shell of her ear. “We’ll all be downstairs.”

“Stay,” she groggily requests, shimmying backward enough to make room for me.

As much as the rational part of my brain tells me to decline, I find myself bending over to unlace my boots. The motion is slow and deliberate, like I’m giving my brain time to think better of it. But I don’t. One by one, I untie them and set them beside her heels. Staying is easy. That’s not the problem; knowing where to draw the line is.

The mattress dips under my weight as I slide in beside her carefully, a small relieved sound falling over her lips. She shifts closer until we are chest to chest, and I can feel the heat of her skin against mine. The pillow sinks under us as we share every inhale, her uneven exhales blowing over my lips.

Her gaze flicks to my mouth before she tentatively closes the distance between us, her lips brushing over mine. The touch is so featherlight, I almost think I’m imagining it. But it’s enough to erase every line I’ve been drawing in my head since I met her.

As much as I want to, I don’t take from her. I meet her lips with the same tenderness. The result is a slow, unhurried kiss, a careful collision of restraint and quiet surrender I feel all the way to my core. Her mouth softens against mine, and she lets out the tiniest moan, the warmth of it spilling onto my lips. When it breaks, it’s only by a fraction, neither of us really moving away.

Her eyes open, searching mine. Lightly dusting my thumb across her full lower lip, I keep my voice low when I interrupt the silence. “You should sleep.”

Her lashes flutter as she nods, answering me without words. She exhales slowly and heavily before leaning forward and tucking herself under my chin. Sleep doesn’t arrive all at once; it steals her in pieces. The tension in her shoulders unravels first, then the tight grip of her breathing, until there’s nothing left but the soft, even rhythm of it against my chest.

And I stay there longer than I should, memorizing the feeling of her against me as something in me goes unnervingly still, just holding her. Only when I’m certain she’s gone under do I shift my weight. I ease her onto the pillow, keeping one hand near her until I’m sure she won’t reach for me in her sleep. Her fingers loosen slowly, finally releasing the last of their hold, and I notice the flower still caught in her hand.

I take it gently, peeling it free from her grip and placing it on the nightstand. Her hand falls open, and there are small scrapes along her palm, thin angry lines where thistles caught her delicate skin. After laying it gently beside her, I cross into the adjoining bathroom without turning on the light. I grab a hand towel from beside the sink and run it under warm water before wringing it out. Returning to Devyn, I kneel beside the bed and take her hand into mine. I clean the tiny scratches slowly, each wipe of the cloth gentle enough not to wake her. When I’m done, I set her hand on the mattress and cover her with the blanket before leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to her temple.

Carrying my boots, I cross the room in silence. When I reach the door, I turn to look at her for a moment before stepping into the hall. I pull the door shut with a soft click, ensuring I don’t wake her.

I make my way downstairs and find all of the guys in the living room. Hawk looks up first, reading me before speaking. “She okay?”

“Yeah.” The lone word comes out rougher than I intend. “She’s okay.”

The silence that follows is full of everything I don’t say.

When I sit down, the chair creaks under me, and I lean forward to brace my forearms over my knees. I drag a hand over my mouth, still feeling the lingering softness of her lips against mine. Forcing my gaze up from the floor, I look up at Hawk. My voice is tight when it finally comes. “I should’ve stayed away… but I can’t.”

Soon, my love…

The words come over and over, the voice pulling at me through layers of consciousness, each more terrifying than the last. I dream in fragments: the crush of bodies, a shuddering whisper in my ear, the unnatural weight of the flower in my hand, and the faceless man responsible for it all.

I wake with a gasp, sitting upright in bed, my heart taking up residence in my throat. The room is dark, and the sheets are tangled against my legs, the comforter kicked to the floor.

I press my palm against my chest, feeling the wild gallop of my heartbeat and the shallow rasp of my breath. The reality of last night crashes over me.

He was there.

In the crowd.

Close enough to touch me, to whisper to me, to press that goddamn flower into my hand. Close enough to…

I try to stop the thought before it can complete itself, but it’s too late. The image is there, planted and growing.

What could have happened. What would have happened if Gunnar had been two seconds slower, three feet farther away.

My stalker could have pulled me into the crowd, into a waiting car, and straight toward a nightmare from which there would be no rescue.

This is no longer about letters or a single trespassing incident. I can’t convince myself that everyone else is overreacting. For the first time since this began, I truly understand how much danger I am in.

The realization sits heavy in my gut. Someone is watching me, studying me, and waiting for the perfect moment to take what they believe belongs to them. Me.

I am not safe.

Not in crowds, my own home, not anywhere.

Except with Gunnar.