Page 49 of Until the End

Boom. The frame splintered and the bedroom door gave way, flying open.

“Kit?” Castle stormed in, his ferocious gaze sweeping the room. “What’s wrong?” He checked the windows, whipped in and out of the bathroom, and hurried toward her.

In the moonlight, she spotted the sci-fi looking gun in his hands. “Oh God. Oh God.” She scurried back until the headboard pressed against her spine. Her vision filled with the sight of Bravo pointing the gun at Jasper’s head.

Bang. The sound reverberated in her chest, the memory acute. She saw Jasper keeled over, his blood and brains splattered across the keyboard.

She dry heaved.

“Kit. You’re shaking.” Castle set the gun on the nightstand and put his arms around her, strong and tight as iron bands.

Clutching his shirt, she buried her face in his chest. The weight of her failures bore down on her, stinging her eyes. She wanted to cry and hated herself for it. Kit wasn’t a crier.

Castle cupped her skull gently, like a precious egg he feared cracking, but held her tight. There was an undisguisable lethality about him that’d shine through even if he was dressed up as the Easter Bunny. The unexpected tenderness tore at her already frail heart. Uncontrollable tears edged past her lashes, but she flat out refused to descend into hysterical, racking sobs. Self-pitying tears were pointless. They’d only puff up her eyes, congest her nose, and change nothing. Every time life—or rather, death—kicked her in the teeth, she’d picked herself up, redefined her purpose, and started over in a new direction.

But this time, she was utterly lost.

Her shortcomings were the reason they were all dead. Her brother. Her mother. Now the Outliers. Everybody she loved had died because she’d failed them.

While she was left with the misery of surviving. Alone.

“No one’s going to hurt you. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, a guardian angel she didn’t deserve. His big, comforting hands stroked her hair. “You’re okay.”

Would she ever be okay again? How could she recover from losing every single person she’d loved? Each death burned a hole inside her, rendering to ash something impossible to replace. Her soul was scalded, throbbed with pain. Those scars would never go away. Never heal.

Her insides heaved. All the strength had been squeezed out of her.

“Breathe, Kit.” His husky voice was a lifeline pulling her from the darkness. “Just focus on breathing and nothing else.”

He kept repeating the words, over and over, until finally she did. In and out, one breath after another, the next slower than the one before it.

“You’re safe,” he said.

In that moment anyway, she did feel safe. Castle was hard-nosed and fierce, with an imposing build. Nothing about him was soft, but somehow enfolded in the rugged strength of his arms, the scent of soap and aftershave and peppermint toothpaste curling around her, a calm stillness stole over her. Little by little, the tidal wave of ugliness receded. Her mind gloriously emptied.

That sense of tranquility was the freaking best she’d had in her sorry life.

She looked up at him. Wide, muscular chest. A tattoo on his left pectoral muscle of an eagle holding a trident, anchor, and antique gun. On his right shoulder was another tattoo of a frog’s skeleton. A dusting of stubble on his cheeks—ideal for the right kind of friction.

Damn. He was so unbelievably hot it was unfair.

Her gaze lifted, meeting his. Those eyes were star bright, the blue-green shade so enthralling the color would forever haunt her.

Something between them shifted, as if someone hit pause on time, on reality, giving license to delusions of intimacy. Awareness seeped through her body. She trembled, her heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with nightmares.

Castle brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear, and wiped her tears away with his thumb. Their mouths were dangerously close, the heat of his shallow breath warm on her face. He had the most delicious lips that’d probably possess and demand, leave her breathless and aching.

How could this powerhouse tough guy touch her with more tenderness than any other man she’d known?

It’d been a long time, far too long since someone had shown her genuine affection of the nonplatonic variety. Simply held her without wanting something in return. Top it off with the last few grueling days—the running, the stress, terror lurking around every corner waiting to pounce. She’d been operating on fumes.

He caressed her face, tracing her jawline with his fingers, his rough calluses tickling her. She held her breath at the whoosh through her belly as she wondered what those big hands would feel like all over her skin.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and slid back to her eyes. They were having one of those moments. A kindled spark flared, sucking up all the oxygen in the room.

Familiar desire was written across his face and her throat tightened with longing.

She leaned in, closing her eyes, and brushed her mouth over his, needing, craving a deeper comfort. The soft, delicate kiss barely skimmed the surface of what she wanted, yet her thighs tingled. Her heart thrummed. The sudden rush was exhilarating.