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“Callum is dead,” I say. “Even so, his network isn’t fully dismantled. There are still people out there who would hurt you to get to me.”

“There will always be people who want to hurt you. That doesn’t mean I need a small army following me around.”

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“Everything is up for discussion!” She jabs her finger at my chest. “You don’t get to make unilateral decisions about my life. That’s not how this works.”

“That’s exactly how this works. I’m responsible for your safety—”

“I’m responsible for my own safety!”

“—and I will not compromise on this.”

She stares at me, her jaw tight, her breathing rapid. I can see the frustration rolling off her in waves, and I know she can see the same stubbornness in me.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“And you’re reckless.”

We’ve had this argument before—in different forms, about different things, but always the same underlying tension. Her independence against my need to protect. Her freedom against my control.

She takes a step closer to me, and I can smell her perfume now, feel the heat radiating from her skin.

“I chose you,” she says, her voice low. “I chose this, but I didn’t choose to be caged.”

“You’re not caged.”

I grab her wrist, just hard enough to stop her from stepping away. “You don’t understand what it was like,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. “When they took you. I thought—”

I stop. I can’t finish that sentence. Even now, months later, the memory of that night makes something cold and terrible settle in my chest.

Her expression softens, just slightly. “I know.”

“No. You don’t.” I pull her closer, until she’s pressed against me, until I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. “I’ve never been afraid of anything. Not death, not pain, not losing everything I’ve built. The thought of losing you—”

I don’t finish, but I don’t need to. She can see it in my face, feel it in the way my grip tightens on her wrist.

I kiss her. She responds instantly, her fingers gripping my shirt, pulling me closer. The argument isn’t over but right now, in this moment, neither of us cares.

“I’m still mad at you,” she says against my lips.

“I know.”

She makes a sound that’s half laugh, half moan, and then I’m kissing her again, my hands sliding under her shirt to find bare skin. She’s warm and soft and alive, and the memory of that night fades a little more with every touch.

I carry her to my desk, clearing the surface with one sweep of my arm. Papers scatter, something shatters on the floor, but I don’t care about any of it. I care about her—about the way she feels in my arms, the way she says my name, the way she looks at me like I’m something worth choosing.

I lay her back on the desk, and she pulls me down with her, her hands already working at my belt. I return the favor, sliding her pants down her hips and off, tracing the curves I’ve memorized over these months.

I’m hard and leaking already. I sink into her, and we both go still for a moment, adjusting to the sensation. Her eyes meet mine, and I see everything there: the frustration, the desire, the love she doesn’t say out loud but shows me in a hundred different ways every day.

“Move,” she says, and I do.

It’s fast and urgent, the way it always is when we’ve been fighting. All the tension and frustration that’s been building between us finds an outlet in the movement of our bodies, in the sounds she makes, in the way her nails dig into my shoulders as she pulls me closer.

It’s fast and urgent, the way it always is when we’ve been fighting. All the tension and frustration that’s been building between us finds an outlet in the movement of our bodies, in the sounds she makes, in the way her nails dig into my shoulders as she pulls me closer.

I thrust into her hard and she gasps, her head falling back against the desk. Her legs tighten around my waist, her heels pressing into the small of my back as she urges me deeper.