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Another offended chirp.

Nash pauses long enough to kick the bedroom door shut.

The lock clicks.

“Good call,” I say.

“I’m a strategic thinker.”

I smirk. “Prove it.”

That wipes the amusement off his face.

He lays me on the bed like I’m something precious, which is annoying because I am a weapon and a nightmare and the woman who tore Ramsey’s throat open this morning.

But then Nash crawls over me with his eyes gone black and reverent, and I decide I can allow precious this once.

Temporarily.

He braces himself above me, careful not to put weight on my shoulder. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“Nothing hurts.”

“Mia.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”

“Good.”

“Bossy.”

“Careful,” he says, brushing his mouth over mine. “There’s a difference.”

I should have a smartass response. I’m sure one exists. But then he kisses down my throat, avoiding the bruises and scrapes, and all my thoughts abandon me like cowards.

His hand slides under my shirt.

Slow.

Warm.

Possessive in a way that doesn’t feel like ownership. It feels like wonder.

Like he can’t quite believe he gets to touch me.

That does something terrible to my heart.

“Nash.”

“I know,” he says, though I haven’t said anything useful.

He lifts the strap of my sling carefully, guiding it over my head and then easing it around the injured shoulder with such focused patience that my throat tightens. The way he looks at me, the gentleness, the care…it makes my heart contract.

“You are inconvenient,” I tell him.

He pauses, my shirt halfway off. “Because I’m being careful?”

“Because you make me want to let you.”