Page 60 of What We Become

“Night, Eli.” Her voice is barely there.

Holden stands from the table. Crosses to us and puts his hand on her face, tilts it toward him, and looks at her with complete, unwavering certainty.

“Goodnight, wildcat.” He kisses her once. Firm, brief, decisive. A stamp. “We’re all here. Nothing gets through that door.”

“I know,” she says.

He nods at me. I carry her up the steps two at a time because there’s no way I’ll fit in that elevator. Fury grumbles under her breath, refusing to admit she’s already melted halfway to sleep in my arms.

Her head lolls against my shoulder as I round the landing and step into the hallway. The lights in the cabin are low, every surface warm and golden, shadows soft at the edges.

I toe open her bedroom door and carry her straight to the bed. The sheets are cold, but I can fix that. I lay her down gentle, keeping the blanket wrapped around her so the air doesn’t bite. She tries to glare at me but the effect is ruined when she burrows down into the comforter, the muscles in her jaw unlocking all at once.

“I don’t need coddling,” she says, but her eyes are already sliding shut.

“I know.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m breakable.” I kneel next to the bed.

“Never. You’re the toughest person I’ve ever known. It’s why I call you Fury.”

She opens one eye at me, defiant. “Aren’t you supposed to put me in pajamas and read me a story, or whatever?”

We both look at the pile of new clothes, the silk pajama set Milo picked out sitting right on top. It shines in the lamplight, a faint pink glow against the dark wood.

I pick them up. “You want these?”

She bites the inside of her cheek, considering. “Yeah. But don’t tell Milo I said it.”

When she sits, I lift her arms and peel the hoodie off slow, careful not to catch any of the dressings. Underneath, her collarbone flares sharp in the lamplight, the skin marked by the pale bands of tape and deeper bands of bruise. She’s wearing a simple cotton bra, faded from too many washes.

“You want this off?”

She nods, and I reach behind her, unclasping it with two fingers. My hands are steady. I don’t think she notices. Still, even through the exhaustion, she manages a faint smile and shrugs the straps down, letting the fabric fall to her lap. The bruises on her ribs are worse than I remember—green and yellow, blooming up her side and over her shoulder. I set the bra aside and reach for the pajama top.

“Don’t you wanna touch me?” she whispers, sitting there topless and shivering, teeth chattering.

I pause, pajama top in hand, the air getting heavy. Not sexual. Not entirely. Her eyes find mine and there’s nothing careful left in them.

“I always want to touch you,” I say. “But you need to rest.”

She shakes her head, small but intent. “I don’t want to sleep. Not yet.” A tremor runs along her jaw, a muscle clenching, but she keeps her eyes on me and won’t look away. “Every time I close my eyes . . .” She doesn’t finish it, but I know. I was there. I saw what was left when we tore the bricks away.

“You don’t have to sleep.” I set the pajama top aside and take her hands. I kiss her knuckles, her fingertips, the soft skin between her thumb and palm until her breathing slows.

“Then touch me, Knox.” She takes my hand and rests it against her breast. “Please.”

FOURTEEN

SAGE

Knox’s hand doesn’t move. Palm warm against my breast, fingers perfectly still, like starting means losing the thread of his control entirely.

“Fury.” One word. A warning and a surrender at the same time.