Chapter Six
Faith
" Y ou really live here?" I eye Octavio doubtfully as he pulls into the driveway of a single-story ranch style house in the middle of a small neighborhood in Tarzana. The house is an off-white color, with green shutters and a small garage in the back. The neighborhood is honestly one of the nicest ones I've seen in a long time. It looks like the kind of place you'd raise a family. As far as I've been able to tell, he doesn't have a family. At least I don't think he does. Would he ask me to live with him if he did?
"Yeah, conejita ," he says, a smile in his voice. "I really live here." He puts his SUV in park and then kills the engine before turning to face me. "Roman Gregory and his fiancée live right next door. And a guy by the name of Trevor Buckley lives on the other side of them. He does personal security."
"Okay," I murmur, not sure why he's telling me this.
"If I ever do anything that scares you, I want you to walk right out the front door and go to one of them," he says, his normally deep growl soft and serious. The same sincerity lights his sepia eyes, warming them. "Tell them you're afraid, and they'll keep you safe, okay?"
I blink slowly, taken off guard by his request. The tone of his voice tells me that he's serious. He fully expects me to walk out and go find help if he does anything that scares me. The block of ice in my stomach thaws as warmth shoots through me.
I don't understand this man at all. Why does he care so much if I'm afraid or not? Why does it matter to him if I'm safe? I'm nothing to him, just someone he needs to get what he wants.
"Tell me you understand, Faith," he murmurs, reaching out to touch me. His fingertips barely graze my forearm before he pulls back, placing his hand on his thigh.
"I understand," I whisper.
He studies me for a moment and then nods. "Then let's get you settled in," he says before popping open his door and hopping out. He jogs around to my side, holding my door open for me while I wrestle with my seatbelt. My hands are healing but are still stiff and sore, which makes using them difficult.
I climb down slowly, trying to avoid rubbing up against him in the process. He's so much bigger than I am, tall and imposing. His powerful frame takes up so much room that I have to squeeze past him. As I do, I feel his breath on the side of my face. His arm grazes mine.
I fight the urge to shiver, though it's not out of fear or cold. I remember what those muscular arms felt like when he had them wrapped around me this morning…what it felt like to fall apart knowing he'd hold me together. As soon as I saw him standing on the other side of the door, I knew everything would be okay. For the first time in a very long time, I felt like nothing could hurt me. I liked it. A little too much, perhaps.
Getting attached to this man is dangerous for a thousand reasons. I don't understand why, but he genuinely cares what happens to me. No one has ever really cared before. I don't want him to get hurt because he cared…and in my life, people who try to help me always get hurt. Nikolai always made sure I suffered for any kindness anyone bestowed upon me. And he made them suffer, too.
I don't want Octavio to be next.
And if I make it out of this alive, when it's time to leave, I don't want to feel like I'm losing something. If I'm not careful, I know that's exactly how leaving him behind will feel. Already, I'm too attached to him. He's on my mind constantly. I think about things I shouldn't, want things that will only lead to heartbreak.
I'm a means to an end for him, but if I'm not careful, he could become my whole world. I can't afford to get close to him. I can't afford to let him in. Leaning on him this morning was a bad idea. I can't let myself do it again.
Staying here is a bad idea for both of us.
I take a couple of steps away from him, wrapping my arms around myself as if that'll stop me from letting him slip beneath my defenses. I have a sinking feeling that it won't, though. He's crumbled too damn many of them already.
"I'll get your stuff," he mutters, slamming the door on the SUV. He quickly gathers my bags from the back and then escorts me to the front door, waving as Agent Gunner pulls out of the driveway and heads out.
There's an alarm panel right inside the door.
"The code is 4374," Octavio says, punching it in on the keypad. "Once the door opens, you have sixty seconds to type it in before it alerts the security company. Opening the back door will trigger it as well."
"Okay," I say, looking around.
His house is a lot bigger than it looks from the outside. It's also decorated in a way that screams of comfort and warmth, not what I expected from hm. The floors are all gleaming hardwood. The tables scattered around the living room are all heavy wood, with a soft gray sectional and matching chairs with teal throw pillows. A teal and gray vintage rug adorns the floor, with matching curtains over the windows. Gorgeous vases and little wooden carvings rest on top of the tables. A large television hangs on one wall, with three guitars displayed on the opposite wall. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. He's so intense and difficult to read. I guess I expected his house to be imposing, too.
"Your house is beautiful," I whisper, looking over at him to find him watching me.
The right side of his lips lifts into a half smirk that makes my heart flutter. It's really not fair how damn beautiful he is. He smiles at me, and my freaking soul quivers in response.
"I'm glad you like it," he murmurs. "I want you to be comfortable here. Come on. I'll show you to your room."
I follow behind him through the living room. He points out the kitchen, which is bright and sunny, and a dining room with a large table. Every room we pass is spotless. When we pass into the hall, I stop to examine photographs hanging all up and down the hallway.
"Is this you?" I ask, smiling at a picture of a little boy with dark hair and a big grin. He's dressed in football gear with a helmet in his hands. He's maybe six or seven, but even then, he was big. He looks so happy.
"Yeah," he mutters.
The next photo is of him as a little boy with a girl several years older than him. She's beautiful, with long dark hair. Despite the age gap between the two of them, there's no mistaking the family resemblance. They have the same sepia eyes.
"You have a sister?" I ask, looking up at him.
Pain flares in his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. "I did," he mutters, his voice flat. "She died a long time ago."
"Oh." I glance from him to the photo and then back. I don't think he wants to talk about whatever happened to her, so I don't ask. "She was very beautiful," I say instead of prying. "I'm sorry you lost her."
He doesn't say anything, instead stalking down the hall, pointing out the bathroom, his office, and a room that's been converted into a gym. I examine the photos as I follow behind him, unable to resist this little peek into his past. They're all happy scenes of him and his family. His parents were obviously older when they had him, but they seem happy. His mom is as beautiful as his sister, with kind eyes and a ready smile. Octavio looks like a younger version of his dad.
There's a lightness in his eyes in the pictures that's missing now. The man standing beside me has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I think he has for a long time. A couple of pictures down, I realize that they lost his sister when he was still incredibly young. He couldn't have been more than ten or eleven when she stopped appearing in family photos. In those without her, he and his parents look somber and sad. They smile for the camera, but their smiles don't reflect in their gazes.
In the space of a couple of years, his parent age noticeably.
"They're gone now, too," he says when he notices me looking at a photo of his parents.
"I'm sorry." I quickly glance away from the photo, my heart pulsing with a painful kind of empathy. I wish he didn't have to know what it's like to be all alone in the world. It's a special kind of hell…one he deserves less than most I've met.
"This is your room." He pushes open a door at the end of the hall, stepping aside for me to enter. He's tense, his expression closed off to me. I don't think he likes sharing his pain with anyone else. Part of me wants to reach out and hug him anyway, but I don't. Both because I think he'd view it as pity and because I'm no longer sure if I'd be comforting him or taking a little for myself.
I have no pictures of my past, no happy memories to display, and no home to display them in. I'm alone in a way that few really understand. Even when I had family, they hated me. And I'm not even sure if the father I remember is real or just a fantasy I conjured up because the truth is too painful. It hurts more than I want to admit, especially to this man who has his own scars and his own pain. He doesn't need to carry any part of mine.
So I focus on familiarizing myself with the room instead of dwelling. Like the rest of the house, it's nice. The furniture is dark wood, with a queen-sized bed against the far wall and a rocking chair in the corner. A small television sits on top of a dresser. The floor is covered with a massive blue and white rug that matches the bedding.
"The primary suite is right across the hall. It has its own bathroom, so you won't have to share," he murmurs, setting my bags on the bed.
"Thank you."
He stands there for a long, silent moment, watching me wander around. And then he clears his throat. "I'll let you get settled. Let me know if you need anything."
I open my mouth to thank him again, but when I glance up, he's already gone.
An hour later, Octavio pops in to check on me while I'm hanging up the last of the clothes he bought me. Despite being hesitant to accept them, he chose well. Everything is comfortable and warm, which is nice because I'm always cold. It's obvious he put thought into what he chose, which makes me feel bad for being a bitch about it. I don't know how he knew my size, but everything fits. Including the bras and panties…which I refuse to spend too much time thinking about or I might never be able to look him in the eyes again.
"I would have helped you do that," he says, frowning when he sees me hanging up the last few items. He seems less tense than he did earlier, and his eyes are lighter.
The realization that he's still grieving over the family he lost breaks my heart. They obviously meant a great deal to him. So much so that he covered his home in pictures of them, keeping them with him as best he could. I desperately want to know what happened to them, but I know better than to ask. Some pain isn't for sharing. Some grief is personal.
He strides into the room, gently tugging the hangers from my hands and placing them in the closet. Once he's done, he wraps his hands around my wrists to examine my palms. The tip of his index finger runs across one of the larger stitched-together cuts. "You shouldn't be using them so often."
"They don't hurt much," I mumble, my gaze riveted to the sight of his hands around my wrists. They're rough and callused, but he holds onto me like I'm delicate, breakable. Is that how he sees me? As someone breakable? Someone so fucked up he has to handle me with kid gloves or risk damaging my already cracked pieces? "I've had worse."
His gaze snaps to meet mine, anger turning his eyes dark and bleak. He looks like a warrior staring down at me, fierce and deadly. My stomach flutters, a wave of heat kissing my skin as that look scorches me. I quickly pull away, putting distance between us.
He takes it as fear.
"I'm sorry," he grits out, his voice a low growl that does nothing to cool me down. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"It's fine," I say, though I'm not afraid of him. I've spent the last five years surrounded by men who terrified me, men who wanted me to live in fear. But I haven't felt a single moment of fear for this confusing detective since I met him. What I feel for him is far more complicated than that.
A frustrated, wordless puff of sound escapes his full lips. "I ordered food. Come eat."
"I'm not very hungry."
"You need to eat, Faith," he says, a gentle admonishment in his voice.
"Fine," I huff, rolling my eyes as my heart squeezes in a vise. "I'll eat."
He shakes his head like he can't figure me out and then ducks out of my room. I follow behind him, stomping like a petulant child. I can't seem to stop though. I don't know why I'm acting like a brat, but every time he does something to take care of me, it feels…strange. No one has ever cared before if I was hurt or if I ate or if I was afraid. He does though. I don't know how to handle it. Being a bitch is the only defense I have when he insists on knocking down my walls at every turn. How else am I supposed to survive living with him with my heart intact?
The strong, pleasant aroma of meat, spices, and veggies hits me before we're halfway down the hallway. My stomach growls loudly, betraying me. Whatever he ordered smells amazing…far better than the reheated tacos I ate last night. Why does he have to be hot and thoughtful? Why can't he be a dick like most of Nikolai's men who look like him?
He disappears at the end of the hall.
I slow my steps, taking a second to steel my fraying nerves before I round the corner into the dining room behind him. He's already at the table, pulling containers out of two brown paper bags. I hesitate on the threshold, watching him.
"I hope Chinese is okay," he says, glancing up at me.
"It's good." I clear my throat. "Though it looks like you plan to feed the entire neighborhood with all of that."
He gives me another of those half-smirks, his eyes softening. "I wasn't sure what you liked," he says, shrugging like that explains the fifteen containers of food now spread across the tabletop.
My stomach flutters again.
"Whatever we don't finish now, we'll eat later." He pulls out chopsticks and then his gaze drops to my hands. His lips pull down into a frown, his brows furrowing. " Mierda . I didn't think. Maybe Chinese wasn't the best idea."
"Chinese is good." I take another step into the room, not liking the uncertainty in his gaze. He moves with a confidence I've never quite mastered. The same reflects in his eyes most of the time, like he's used to being in charge and making tough decisions. I don't like seeing him off-balanced or second guessing himself, especially not because of me. "Maybe I should skip the chopsticks though," I suggest with a tentative, hopefully reassuring smile.
He reaches into the bag and pulls out packets of silverware, holding them out to me. He doesn't make a move in my direction or say anything, just holds them out like he's waiting for me to take the next step. The look in his eyes leaves the impression that it's important to him that I close the distance between us this time.
I study him for a moment and then walk toward him, reaching out for one of the packets. His smile is full of pride as he hands over the packet, his hand brushing mine before he steps back and picks up a plate.
"What do you want to eat?" he asks. "I got some of everything."
"Um, maybe some fried rice, an egg roll, and chicken."
"What kind of chicken?"
"I…" I shrug helplessly, glancing down at my feet.
"What's wrong, Faith?"
"I've never actually…um…" I hesitate, my cheeks burning. "I've never got to pick before. I don't know what it's called."
He's silent for a moment. "Describe it."
I glance up at him, grateful that he doesn't ask questions. I'm not ready to tell him the humiliating truth about the way I've survived in Nikolai's care. "It has seeds on it?"
"That's sesame chicken, conejita ." He pops lids off containers until he finds the rice and sesame chicken and then dishes out half the container of each onto my plate. He then adds three egg rolls.
"I can't eat all of that," I protest.
He shrugs but doesn't say anything, instead depositing my plate on the table in front of a chair. "What do you want to drink? We have water, milk, beer, orange juice, and grape soda." His brows furrow. "Maybe we should skip beer for now."
My heart warms at the way he says we like I really belong here with him. "I've never had beer."
He blinks at me. "Never?"
I shake my head. "Water is fine."
He nods, pulling my chair out for me. Once I'm seated, he crosses into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and grabbing two bottles of water. He twists the cap off one and places the bottle in front of me and then sets the other on the opposite side of the table. I wait for him to load his plate down, my eyebrows climbing.
"There's no way you can eat that much," I mutter when he looks at me.
He smirks, chuckling. "Oh, I can eat it, conejita ."
I narrow my eyes on him. "Why do you call me that?"
"Does it bother you?"
"I told you it did," I grumble, though that's not strictly true. The way he says it, all soft and low, makes me feel warm all over. That's probably not a good thing.
"No," he disagrees, dropping his plate on the table beside his water and then lowering himself into his chair. "You said you weren't a rabbit. You never said you didn't like it."
"Fine, Detective Hernandez . Call me a rabbit then."
"You call me Octavio, Faith."
"No thanks, Detective Hernandez." I take a big bite of my egg roll, pretending I don't notice the way he glowers at me like I just took away his favorite toy. His stare is intense. I think he's trying to glare me into submission, but I don't give in.
He watches me like that for several long moments before he shakes his head, muttering beneath his breath in Spanish about me being stubborn as a mule. Does he even realize I know more than just a few words of Spanish? Probably not. My mother would go days on end speaking nothing but Spanish. She didn't do it to teach me. She did it because she didn't want me to understand what she was saying to me so she could punish me when I didn't respond or react quickly enough. But when pain is the result of not learning, you learn quickly.
Eventually, Octavio settles down and starts eating. The furrow between his brows grows as we eat, but he doesn't say anything for several long moments.
I finish my egg roll and fight to open the package of silverware.
Octavio reaches across the table and snags it from me, quickly ripping the plastic open and then passing the silverware back to me without a word.
"Thank you." I set the fork to the side and use the spoon to scoop up some of the rice. My hand protests, but the pain is small, not intolerable. The rice is good, the rich flavors bursting on my tongue. My stomach growls again. It's delicious.
"What do you think of Roman Gregory?" Octavio asks a few minutes later.
I blink, my spoon hovering halfway between my plate and my mouth. "What do I think of him?"
"Does he make you uncomfortable?"
I shake my head.
"Are you afraid of him?"
"No," I say slowly, suddenly leery about why he's asking.
He notices my hesitation. "With the bar shooting, my caseload is heavy right now," he explains. "When I can't be here with you, someone else will need to keep an eye on you."
"Oh."
"Roman has agreed to help keep you safe." He expels a breath. "But when neither of us can be with you, you'll be with Roman's fiancée and her guard. His name is Luke Santiago. He's a DEA agent."
My stomach churns uncomfortably.
"I trust Roman with my life," Octavio says. "He wouldn't let Luke anywhere near his fiancée if Luke couldn't be trusted. He won't hurt you."
I stare at my plate, not saying anything. For some reason, I just assumed I would be with Octavio the whole time. Maybe I was stupid or na?ve to think that, but I did. The thought of spending time with another man I don't know isn't appealing in the least.
As Agent Sanders demonstrated, not even federal agents are always beacons of morality or good people. My body is the only thing I have that's my own. It's the only thing that Nikolai and the Bratva didn't take from me. I hate Sanders for trying to take from me what even they didn't. The thought of someone else trying to force themselves on me scares the hell out of me.
"Roman's fiancée will be with you the whole time, Faith," Octavio says, perhaps sensing my thoughts. "You won't ever be alone with Luke or with Roman. Mila is pregnant. She's having a little girl in a few months. You'll like her. She's very sweet."
I lick my lip, lifting my gaze from my plate to see him staring at me with concern and something too much like pity. The same part of me that fought to survive in Nikolai's territory comes roaring to the surface, refusing to be vulnerable or let him see my fear. That part is a hell of a lot braver than the rest of me. It's the part of me that they never broke, no matter how hard they tried. I cling to that little thread of courage with both hands, hanging on for dear life. Nikolai didn't break me. Sanders didn't break me. I won't let this either.
"If we had another choice, we'd take it."
"I'll be fine with them," I say as casually as possible, picking up my spoon again. The words fall flat, giving away the lie. I try again. "You don't have to worry about me."
Octavio frowns, his gaze sweeping across my face. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something and then snaps it closed again. His frown deepens. "You're angry with me."
"I'm not angry, Detective Hernandez."
"My name is Octavio, Faith."
I take another bite of my chicken, but it tastes like sawdust.
"Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me why you're so afraid," he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it before. It's like he's pleading with me to give him this. Just like outside of Ilya's, I'm caught, unable to resist giving him what he's asking for when no one except him ever asks me for or needs anything from me.
"I've spent the last five years surrounded by men who went out of their way to make my life a living hell," I whisper, pushing my plate away from me and picking up my water bottle. It's cool against my hands, soothing the cuts and scrapes. "I wasn't allowed to eat or sleep unless I had permission. I had to go where I was told to go and do what I was told to do. If I wasn't quick enough, or quiet enough, or grateful enough, or invisible enough, Nikolai's men would find ways to make me pay for it."
" Mierda ," Octavio mutters.
"I was surrounded by dangerous men who like to hurt people for sport. And hurting me was their favorite sport most days. That's the life I know, Detective Hernandez. Those are the kinds of men I'm used to dealing with. You tell me that Roman Gregory and Luke Santiago can be trusted, and I want to believe you, but when you live like I have, you can't afford to trust blindly. Not if you want to survive." I flick my gaze to his to find him watching me with murder in his eyes. "And my life may have been hell, but I find that I'm not in any hurry to see it ended."
"How did they hurt you, angel?" he demands, his voice a dangerous growl. "What did they do to you?"
"It doesn't matter," I whisper, refusing to share any more of my shame with him. Refusing to give him another reason to feel sorry for me. What Nikolai and his men did, they did to me. I'll carry those secrets to the grave before I give this man another reason to pity me.
"It does matter," he argues. "You matter, Faith."
"No, I don't," I disagree, blinking back tears at his emphatic declaration. "My own mother didn't want me, Detective Hernandez. I have no friends, no home, and no place to go. I disappeared at sixteen and no one looked for me. Not my school. Not the cops. No one. I mattered to no one five years ago, and I matter to no one now. I haven't mattered to anyone since my father died."
"You matter to me."
"You don't even know me," I whisper, pushing away from the table as my heart pulses with a strange mix of grief and longing.
"I know you better than you think I do," he growls.
He's wrong though. He has no idea who I am or what I'm capable of. No idea what the last five years have been like for me or what I've done to survive. He has no idea how many people suffered because of me.
"Once you get what you need to take Nikolai down, you'll be on to the next case. If I'm lucky, I'll be free. If I'm not, I'll be right back where I started." I give him a sad smile. "That's how things work in my world. Don't ask me to believe things will be different when I'm the one who will have to live with the consequences if you're wrong. Don't ask me to hope for things that will just end up getting me hurt."
"Do you trust me, Faith?"
"Do I have a choice?"
He flinches like I struck him. Guilt prods at me, but I don't take it back. For both of our sakes, I can't.
Gunshots rip through the building, shattering glass all around me. People scream, pleading for help as music blares through the building. The sounds are so loud I want to clap my hands over my ears and scream for them to stop…but I'm frozen in place, unable to move as a bullet strikes Adrian in the cheek, knocking him off his feet. Another hits Lev in the chest, flinging him into an overturned table.
"Faith, get down!" Ilya yells at me.
A glass bottle explodes beside my head.
I drop to my hands and knees, crying out when a broken bottle slices my palms open.
Stop, I plead silently, crawling for safety as bullets continue to rip through the building. Please stop.
"Faith!" someone yells over the war currently ripping apart the bar. Strong hands wrap around my upper arms, shaking me. "Faith, conejita , wake up."
Wake up?
Am I dreaming?
I crack my eyes open and the scene around me wavers. Ilya's bar dissolves in distorted blurs. The floor beneath me isn't cement, but gleaming hardwood. It's not Ke$ha's voice ripping through the bar, but my own screams shattering the stillness of the night. And it's not Ilya staring at me from across the bar, but Octavio looming over me on his knees, his hands wrapped around my upper arms as he tries to calm me down.
I clamp my lips together, silencing my screams.
"Faith," Octavio whispers, the fear in his gaze melting to relief when I fixate on him.
He's really here, and I'm safe. I'm not at Ilya's. No one is shooting. No one is dying.
I'm safe.
"Octavio," I gasp, tears welling in my eyes and then spilling over too quickly for me to hold them off. Pure, unadulterated relief rushes through me in a massive flood.
His expression softens when he sees the tears spilling down my cheeks. "You were having a nightmare," he whispers, his voice like the soft wash of water over a riverbed. It's so soothing. So peaceful. "A bad one. Are you having them often?"
I nod, still trembling as adrenaline pumps through my system with each painfully uneven thump of my heart. "It felt so real," I whisper. My throat feels serrated and raw. "Like I was back there."
"In the bar?"
I nod again, blinking like that'll clear away the images that haunt me every time I close my eyes.
"Is that why you've been sleeping in the closet?" he asks, slowly reaching out to brush tears away from my face. His hand is warm against my chilled skin, his callused fingers gentle. I realize then that he's naked from the waist up, every inch of his muscular torso on display. A dark tattoo twines up his left upper arm in a tribal pattern, the end brushing his collar bone. His chest is hard, covered with a light dusting of dark hair. My gaze dances down the ridges of his abdomen to the matching trail of hair that disappears where his black lounge pants rest low on his hips.
His body is incredible, almost like an artist sculpted him of thick muscle and smooth brown skin. My entire body buzzes with energy like I've never felt before.
"Faith?" he asks, recalling my attention.
I jerk my gaze away from his body and refocus on his face to find him watching me intently, waiting for me to answer his question. I open my mouth to lie and tell him I don't know how I ended up on a pallet on the closet floor, but the way he's looking at me makes it apparent he already knows the truth. Lying would be pointless.
"When my mom would drink, I'd hide in the closet," I whisper, grimacing when my throat aches. More damning tears spill from my eyes, my internal barriers all but shredded by the nightmare. Old memories mix with new, tearing my heart into little pieces. "I guess I still feel safer here."
Some emotion I can't read sweeps through his gaze. His lips compress into a thin line and then he nods, the motion brusque and businesslike. "I'm going to pick you up now, conejita ," he warns me, moving slowly again…like I'm the frightened rabbit he named me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his hard body.
Without my consent, my body melts into his hold. My head comes to rest against his shoulder, my face in his throat. I breathe him in, his unique earthy scent—like sandalwood and brandy—instantly unraveling tight knots in my stomach. The lingering terror of the nightmare falls away, the last vestiges of fear finally loosening their grip on me. I take a deep, shuddering breath. And then another.
Octavio climbs to his feet, holding me easily.
I reluctantly pull back to peek up at him. He looks fierce again, like a warrior. His jaw is set, his eyes glittering with some powerful emotion I can't name. One that makes me feel like he'd probably tear apart anyone who threatened me with his bare hands. That should probably frighten me, but it doesn't.
"Where are we going?" I ask when he strides across the floor and out into the hall instead of depositing me on the bed like I expected him to do.
"You're sleeping in my room, angel."
"But–"
"No, Faith. You're sleeping in my room," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He quickly crosses the hall, carrying me into his bedroom. The room is mostly dark, the only light coming from a lamp beside the bed. I can see just enough to make out the size of the room—it's huge—and dark-colored furniture. Like the rest of the house, his room is neat and tidy, almost freakishly so. I don't see even a single piece of laundry on the floor. His bed is unmade, standing as proof that he left it in a hurry.
He lays me down in the middle of it and then climbs in beside me. His scent wraps around me, my body relaxing into the soft bed despite the protests bubbling in my stomach. I never knew anyone could smell like safety and peace, but he does.
"I'm not going to let you sleep on the closet floor while nightmares torment you," he says, pulling me into his arms.
My head comes to rest against his chest, and then he yanks his blankets up over me, completely engulfing me in his calming, sexy scent. And despite the little warning bells screaming that this is a bad idea, I curl up against him, unable to resist. I'm so tired, and he's so warm. His heart beats a steady, comforting rhythm beneath my ear.
"I'll watch over you while you sleep."
My eyes flutter, his soft growl lulling me to the edge of sleep.
He brushes my hair away from my face. "Sleep, little bunny," he croons. The words make his chest vibrate against the side of my face. "I've got you, and I won't let anything hurt you."
I think I feel his lips against my crown, and then he begins to hum.
My eyes flutter again and then close.
For the first time in days, I sleep without fear.