Chapter 4
Carly
The bedroom smells like him. Clean soap and something warmer underneath. Woodsmoke. Leather. Skin. The kind of scent that settles deep into cotton and doesn’t wash out easy.
It should make me feel safe.
Instead, it makes everything sharper.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. The blanket is heavier than the one on the couch. The mattress softer. My body is exhausted.
I should be asleep.
The second I close my eyes, I see them.
The hallway at Red Hot Velvet. The badge. The way the smile fell off his face.
Hands.
The room.
I jerk awake with a gasp, heart pounding so hard it hurts. It takes me a second to realize I must have drifted off. A minute. Maybe less.
My skin feels cold again.
I curl onto my side and pull the blanket tighter, but it doesn’t help. The room feels too big. Too quiet.
I sit up.
The house is silent except for the faint hum of something in the kitchen and the low creak of wood settling.
I don’t want to walk out there.
I don’t want to be alone in here.
I step into the hallway before I can change my mind.
He’s standing at the front window, shoulders tense, posture straight. Not relaxed. Not even close. He hasn’t gone to sleep.
Of course he hasn’t.
He glances back when he hears me. His eyes go over me once, quick and assessing.
“You okay?”
I shake my head.
I move closer, careful with my steps. I follow his gaze through the glass.
Two figures outside near the tree line. Still. Watchful.
My stomach drops.
He sees it.
“Prospects. Club boys. They’re here for you.”
For me.
The words land heavy.
“I can’t sleep,” I admit. My voice sounds small in the dark. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there.”
He turns fully toward me now.
The silence stretches.
“I was wondering,” I start, then swallow. “If you could… maybe… uhm.”
This is stupid.
“I’m not asking for anything,” I rush to clarify. “I just… I can’t sleep. I’m afraid.”
His jaw tightens.
I see it happen. The way his body goes rigid. The way he inhales slow through his nose like he’s trying to rein something in.
His voice is rough when he speaks. “You want me in the room.”
It’s not a question.
“Just to sleep,” I whisper. “That’s it.”
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second, then back up. Something dark flickers there. Heat. Control.
“You don’t ask a man that lightly, Carly.”
My pulse jumps.
“I know,” I say. “I just… I trust you.”
That does something to him.
I see it in the way his shoulders shift. In the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting himself.
He exhales once.
“Alright,” he says.
His jaw tightens, like he’s biting down on the rest of it.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he adds, quieter now.
He walks past me toward the bedroom, and the air changes when he moves. Charged. Heavy.
I follow.
He stops beside the bed as if there’s a line drawn there. His hand drags over the back of his neck, a tell he probably doesn’t know he has.
“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. “Because once I’m in that bed, I’m not touching you unless you ask me to.”
Heat rushes to my face before I can stop it. A sudden blush that feels louder than the quiet room.
“I know,” I manage. “I’m not asking for that.”
I slip under the covers and leave space between us.
He lies down on top of the blanket at first, rigid, like he’s bracing for impact.
“That’s not helping,” I whisper.
He turns his head toward me.
“You need to hold me.”
Silence stretches between us.
His eyes darken.
“Carly…”
“I won’t sleep otherwise.”
That part isn’t dramatic. It’s just true.
Another second passes. He exhales, lifts the edge of the blanket, and slides beneath it.
The mattress shifts.
“Turn around,” he says quietly.
I do.
The space between us feels too small to be safe.
His arm comes around my waist. Careful. Measured. Like he knows exactly how dangerous this is.
The moment his chest settles against my back, warmth spreads through me. Heat and muscle and steady breath at my neck.
He keeps his hips angled away. I feel that too. The restraint in it.
His hand rests against my stomach.
I become suddenly, painfully aware of myself. Of the softness there. Of the curve of my hips pressing back into him. Of the way my body isn’t small or sharp or easy to ignore.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I’ve never felt so conscious of being a curvy woman. Not like this. Not with a man who feels like steel and restraint wrapped around me.
He goes still. But he’s there.
And my body, traitorous and exhausted, melts into him like it recognizes the shape.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs.
I try.
I really try.
For a few minutes, it works.
Then the nightmares come back.
I jolt in his arms before I even know I’m awake.
A broken sound rips out of me. My body twists, trying to get away from something that isn’t here.
His hand tightens at my waist, holding me in place but not trapping me.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and sharp at the same time. “You’re here. Carly. You’re here.”
I’m shaking. Harder than before.
I turn without thinking and press into him.
I bury my face in his chest like I need to hide there.
He goes very still.
His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Strong. Unshaken.
“I saw them,” I whisper against his shirt. “I could feel them.”
“They’re not here,” he says. No softness in it. Just certainty. “Nobody’s touching you.”
My hands fist in the leather of his cut, fingers curling into the thick edge of it like I need something solid to anchor to. I’m trembling so badly my teeth almost knock together.
His palm slides up my back once. Slow. Grounding.
“Breathe,” he says.
I try.
His chest rises under my cheek. I match it. In. Out.
His hand is moving in small circles between my shoulder blades.
It shouldn’t feel like this.
It shouldn’t feel safe.
But it does.
Gradually, the shaking lessens. My forehead rests against him now instead of pressing in. I’m aware of everything again.
How close we are.
How my thigh is hooked over his without meaning to.
How his arm around me has tightened.
His breathing is no longer as even as before.
I realize at some point I’ve climbed over him.
Heat rushes through me.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
“For what?”
“For… this.”
His jaw shifts against my temple.
“Don’t apologize for needing someone,” he says.
I lift my head just enough to look at him.
In the dark, his eyes are shadowed. But I can feel them on me. Heavy. Focused.
Too focused.
There’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there earlier. Something barely held in check.
My pulse stutters.
I don’t move away.
Neither does he.
His hand slides from my back to my jaw, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.
I don’t.
His thumb brushes along my cheekbone. Testing.
“Carly,” he says, and my name in his voice is rougher now. Thicker.
I should pull back.
I don’t.
He leans down just slightly.
Just enough.
His mouth finds mine. He pauses there for a heartbeat, his lips resting against mine as if waiting for permission.
The air between us tightens.
When he presses closer, it’s only by a fraction, yet it sends heat sliding through me, low and sudden. My pulse jumps hard enough that I feel it everywhere at once.
He tastes like warmth and restraint.
Like something held back for too long.
My fingers curl into the edge of his cut, grounding myself in the solid weight of him. The world narrows to breath and skin and the steady rise of his chest beneath my palm.
I lean in.
Just enough.
Just enough to say I’m here.
The kiss shifts.
His breath roughens. His hand tightens slightly at my jaw, a silent question, a warning he’s barely keeping contained.
For one suspended second, I feel how easily this could turn into something deeper. How quickly careful could become consuming.
Then he pulls back.
His hand drops. His body shifts back, space snapping between us.
“That was a mistake,” he says, voice low and strained. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
My lips still tingle.
My heart is racing for a different reason now.
“It didn’t feel like one,” I whisper.
His eyes flash.
“Go to sleep,” he says again, rougher now. Like he’s saying it to himself as much as to me.
He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
I’m still on my side, facing him.
The distance feels wrong. Too sudden. Too cold after the heat.
His profile is sharp in the low light. Jaw tight. Throat working once like he’s swallowing something back.
I don’t think. I just move.
I shift closer and rest my cheek against his chest, careful. Testing.
He goes still.
Then his arm comes around me again. Firm. Protective. His palm spreads between my shoulder blades, holding me in place like he’s anchoring himself as much as me.
My pulse is still fast.
But it’s not from fear anymore.
His heartbeat thuds steady under my ear. Solid. Real. Alive.
When sleep finally takes me, it’s with my fingers curled into his cut over his ribs and his arm locked tight around me, like letting go would cost him something he’s not ready to name.