Chapter 8 #3
The thought catches me off guard. Days ago I couldn't wait to leave this cottage. Couldn't wait to testify and reclaim my life. Now the idea of walking out that door makes something clench in my chest.
One more day.
Tomorrow I leave for Atlanta. Tomorrow everything changes.
But today—
"What do you want to do?" I ask.
He looks at me over his shoulder. "What?"
"Today. We have one day." I squeeze him tighter. "What do you want to do with it?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he kills the burner, sets down the spatula, and turns in my arms.
"This," he says. "I want to do this."
He cups my face. Kisses me slow and deep, tasting like coffee, and I melt into him.
"We can do that," I breathe against his mouth.
"And breakfast."
"Obviously breakfast."
"And—" He pauses. Looks at me with tenderness in his eyes. "Whatever you want. Today's yours."
I think about it. What do I want? After last night—the shed, the sex, the bath, the story about Red—I feel cracked open. Raw. Full.
"I want to write," I say. The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him. "I haven't been able to, not since Chicago. But right now..." I trail off.
"Then write." He kisses my forehead. "I'll be here."
***
Later, I'm curled against his side on the couch, my notebook open on my lap. I've been writing for an hour—the words finally coming after days of nothing. He's been reading one of Murphy's old paperbacks, but I catch him watching me over the top of it.
"What's it about?" he asks.
I look up. "What?"
"The book. You've been scribbling in that thing for days. What's it about?"
I hesitate. I haven't talked about my writing with anyone since Chicago. Haven't wanted to. But this is him. And after everything he told me in that bathtub—
"It's about a woman who witnesses something she shouldn't have," I say slowly. "Who has to hide. Who ends up somewhere she never expected, with someone she never expected."
He's quiet. Processing.
"She falls for him," I continue. "Even though she knows it's complicated. Even though she knows it might not work. She falls for him anyway, because he makes her feel safe for the first time in months. Because he sees her—not the scared version, not the broken version. Just her."
"Sounds like someone I know."
"Maybe." I close the notebook. "It's fiction."
"Sure it is." But he's smiling now. Actually smiling—rare and real and devastating. "How's it end?"
"I don't know yet." I trace a pattern on his chest. "I haven't figured that part out."
"Let me know when you do."
"You'll be the first."
He pulls me closer. Presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"Read me some," he says.
"What?"
"Read me some. I want to hear it."
My heart stutters. "It's rough. First draft. There's probably a million things wrong with—"
"Eden." His voice is soft. Patient. "Read me some."
So I do.
I open to a scene from the middle—not the beginning, not the parts that are too close to the bone. A scene where the characters are cooking together, arguing about garlic, learning each other's rhythms. Fiction. Mostly.
He listens without interrupting. When I glance up, his eyes are closed, but he's not asleep. His thumb traces circles on my hip.
When I finish, he doesn't say anything. Just keeps tracing those circles.
"Well?" I ask. "Terrible? Embarrassing? Should I burn it?"
"Don't you dare burn it." He opens his eyes. "It's good. Really good."
"You're biased."
"Probably." He kisses my forehead. "Still good."
I set the notebook aside. Curl into him.
"What happens after tomorrow?" I ask.
He's quiet. I feel him war with himself—the instinct to deflect, to protect us both from the answer.
"I don't know," he says finally. "But I know I don't want to lose you."
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"It could be." I look up at him. "I'm not asking you to have it all figured out. I'm asking you to try. Can you do that?"
He doesn't answer right away. Outside, a bird calls—something I can't identify.
"Yeah," he says. His voice cracks on the word. "I can try."
I kiss him. Soft. Slow. A promise neither of us is ready to put into words.
***
We make dinner together.
He chops vegetables while I man the stove—his instructions, my execution. Turns out I'm not hopeless at cooking when someone actually explains what they're doing and why.
"More garlic," he says, looking over my shoulder.
"There's already four cloves in here."
"And?"
"That's a lot of garlic."
"There's no such thing as too much garlic." He reaches around me, drops another clove in the pan. "Vampires hate this house."
I laugh. Actually laugh—full and surprised and real. His arms tighten around my waist and he presses a kiss to my neck, right below my ear, and I lean back into him.
This. This is what it's supposed to feel like.
Not the fear. Not the hiding. Not the constant weight of what-ifs pressing down on my chest.
Just this. Two people making dinner. Being together. Being happy.
I didn't know I was allowed to have this.
After dinner, we end up on the couch. Some old movie playing on Murphy's ancient TV, the volume too low to really hear. I'm tucked under his arm, my feet in his lap, his hand tracing absent patterns on my ankle.
I should be thinking about tomorrow. About Atlanta, the trial, everything that comes after.
Instead I'm thinking about how his thumb keeps brushing the same spot on my skin. How his heartbeat is slow and steady under my cheek. How, for the first time in months, my brain is quiet.
We stay like that until the movie ends. Until the screen goes dark and the only light is the moon through the windows.
"Come to bed," I say.
He doesn't argue.
***
Later.
The room is dark. His body curves around mine, one arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
"Walk me through it," I whisper.
"Through what?"
"Tomorrow. The plan." I trace circles on his forearm. "I want to know what to expect."
His arm tightens around me.
"Carver picks you up at seven. Ash follows in the Bronco with Maya, in case you need anything medical on the road." His voice is low, rumbling against my back. "Crow and I run backup. Eyes on the route, watching for trouble."
Crow and I.
He's coming. Of course he's coming.
"And at the courthouse?"
"We'll be there." His lips brush my hair. "Every step."
"Okay," I say. "Okay."
His hand tightens on mine in the dark.
I should sleep. In two days, I testify. In two days, the men who tried to kill me either go to prison for life or walk free.
But I can't stop thinking about how this feels. How he feels. The steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. The way his fingers twitch against my stomach, even in sleep. The way I fit here, in the curve of his body.
Seven days. That's all it took.
Seven days to fall in love with an orc who thought he didn't deserve it.
Tomorrow I leave. Tomorrow everything changes.
But tonight, I'm here. In his arms. In his bed.
And for the first time in months, I'm not afraid of what comes next.
I close my eyes.
I sleep.