Page 67 of Late Harvest

Water who?

Water you up to for the rest of my life?

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

Deep within his marrow and his very soul, Bash sensed the moment the formidable bastion of Arabella’s defenses crumbled.

Then she gasped a sob and sunk into him, boneless, vulnerable.

And stripped so bare, Bash wondered how his own heart didn’t explode in sympathetic agony.

It was as if his own body—physically stronger, emotionally bolstered by the truest of family and friends—absorbed Arabella’s pain. It was at once a breathless, brutal punch to his gut and a mandate.

Bash didn’t understand what magical alchemy had led them to this place. How a fundamentally selfish plan derived from his own almost bloodthirsty need for a fucking movie role had brought him to his knees, in subjugation to a queen of a woman who was so battered, so intrinsically and achingly harmed, that her fortifications had clearly repelled any relationships except for a long-eared bunny.

And him.

Bash tightened his arms, breathing deeply as she sunk further into his embrace. Arabella was somehow both emotionally frail and compellingly strong. The honor of holding her was everything. Nothing else mattered. Fully clothed, he was as naked and new as the day he first drew breath. The powerful intimacy—far beyond the sexual union of bodies—was both a blow to Bash’s own not-insignificant fortifications and an illumination of his reason for being.

Arabella Remington was his to protect. His to care for. To cherish. His to heal.

His to love.

His.

Chapter Thirty

I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

—From Remy’s Affirmations for a Badass

Remy

“This is, uh, the bedroom.” Remy motioned uncomfortably to the modest but tasteful surroundings. She’d never had much growing up, so she’d gotten into the habit of not needing much.

The room itself was stunning without much adornment. The married couple who’d owned it and sold it on a quick relo had amazing taste. A tray ceiling. Pale sage walls she hadn’t bothered to repaint. Wainscoting abutted a floor-to-ceiling window that let in the morning sunshine. Recognizing a peaceful refuge, Remy had placed a simple chair and ottoman in front of it, her preferred location for reviewing case notes.

Centered in the room was a simple queen-size bed with only a wrought iron headboard. The headboard had belonged to the couple and they’d offered it to her, saying it didn’t fit the aesthetic of their new West Coast beachfront home. Liking the vibe of the room in the mid-century Cape Cod, she’d accepted the couple’s generous offer for the headboard, along with a distressed white and pale green antique wood dresser with two coordinating nightstands.

Back at the brownstone she’d rented in an historic part of Baltimore, Remy hadn’t the need for much furniture, and what she did have, she’d donated to a women’s shelter. She’d used a simple bed frame. No headboard, et cetera. For her, bed had been a place for sleeping and nothing else. When she’d had sex—to scratch an itch and nothing more—it had never been at her place.

“It’s really nice in here. I like it.” Sebastian’s pronouncement pulled her from her musings.

He stood next to her, but not too close, taking everything in with those expressive eyes that currently revealed frustratingly…nothing. Remy couldn’t read him at all. And she really wanted to. Especially following…whatever it was that had just happened. Was he as freaked out as she was? Or was he employing every acting technique he knew to shut off some vein of emotion he’d tapped in himself?

She’d probably never know. After a few decadent, terrifying moments in The Embrace downstairs, Remy had gotten the sense Sebastian was going to say something that couldn’t be unsaid—unheard—and yanked herself away, propelling herself as far from him as she could get while still being in the same room. Flop sweat had slid down her spine as her fight, flight, or freeze response kicked in to protect her from the vulnerable position.

Offering the thin excuse that she needed to get to sleep because of her early morning the next day, she’d quickly settled Chicane for the night—burying her face in the comfort of his fur for a steadying breath or ten—and then managed to walk calmly to the primary bedroom on shaking legs.

Sebastian had followed quietly. They’d barely exchanged words—Remy quite sure she didn’t want to address what had just happened between them and silently willing him not to bring it up.

Because something unnamable and undefinable had happened. And could never happen again.

Thankfully, Sebastian read the room and restrained his golden retriever tendencies. Watching his atypical awkwardness, Remy was struck with the realization that he may have been just as disturbed…disrupted…discombobulated as she’d been.

“It doesn’t seem like your taste,” he offered quietly, now moving around to look through the large window. “Shift change,” he noted absently, observing two of the three-person team now assigned to protect their every move.