Chapter Twenty-Four - Simon
The second the door locks behind us, my composure fractures.
The only thing keeping me from ripping the world apart is the trembling weight of Eden in my arms—the feel of her pulse racing beneath my hands, the living proof that she’s still here, still mine.
My mind replays every second of what just happened: the stranger’s hand grabbing for her, the flash of fear in her eyes, the sick snap of bone under my grip. It burns behind my eyes, bright and unforgiving, and I know if I hadn’t gotten there in time, I would have lost myself—lost everything.
I set her down gently, but my grip is fierce as I cup her face, sweeping trembling strands of hair from her cheek.
“Eden—” Her name breaks out of me, half plea, half prayer.
She looks up, eyes glassy and wide, terror still flickering in the dark green.
I can barely stand it—the way her lips part, the way her chest rises and falls too fast. I kiss her.
Hard. Desperate. My mouth covers hers, hungry for the reassurance of her breath, her heartbeat.
I need to feel her alive against me, need to make sure she knows she’s safe, here, claimed.
She gasps into my mouth, hands finding my shoulders, then clutching my shirt in fists.
For a heartbeat, her body is stiff, shock still running through her veins.
I slow, but I don’t let go. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in.
My voice is raw. “I’ve got you. No one touches you but me. No one.”
“Simon—” It’s all she gets out before I capture her lips again, this time slower—enough to remind her she’s wanted, enough to prove to myself that she’s real, warm, unbroken.
I press her lightly against the mattress, careful not to crowd her, but there’s a wildness in the way she clings to me—a need that matches my own.
Her hands tangle in my hair, tugging me down, drawing a groan from my throat. I taste salt and fear and relief. The kiss grows rougher, deeper, my teeth grazing her lower lip as I try to anchor myself in her, in us.
She’s the one who breaks the kiss first, panting, her fingers trailing down my chest, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. “Don’t let go. Don’t let go, Simon—please—”
“Never,” I growl. I let my hands roam, splaying wide over her hips, her waist. I feel the heat of her skin, the tension trembling in every muscle.
I push her hair aside and kiss the line of her jaw, then her throat, pausing every few inches to check her pulse, her breath, the way her hands cling to my biceps.
The baby forces me to slow down, to check myself every second, but the hunger inside me is savage—a need to possess her, to remind her and myself that she is here, safe, mine.
I ease a hand under her shirt, feeling her skin hot and soft beneath my palm. My mouth moves to her collarbone, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, lips marking her as mine. I tug her shirt up and off, baring her to my gaze, my touch.
Her body is changing—softer curves, the subtle swell of her belly—but she is more beautiful to me than ever. I let my hands roam, reverent, claiming every inch of her.
She pushes at my shirt, urgent, frantic, and I let her strip it off. Her palms flatten against my chest, nails dragging lines down my ribs. I groan, kissing her harder, tasting the panic and the relief mixing in her mouth.
I drop to my knees, kissing a path down her stomach, lingering at the curve where our child grows.
I rest my forehead there for a moment, breathing in the scent of her, feeling her fingers tangle in my hair.
My hands slide to her thighs, grip firm but gentle, and I press my lips to her skin, worshipping her, worshipping what we made together.
She moans, hips shifting, thighs parting for me. I hook my fingers into her waistband and pull her pants down, trailing kisses over the inside of her thigh, tasting her heat, her want. I take my time, tongue circling, teasing, coaxing desperate little sounds from her lips.
My hands never stop moving—palming her hips, stroking her belly, cradling her as if she could break.
She comes for me with a cry, hands fisted in my hair, legs trembling around my shoulders. I rise and catch her mouth again, drinking in her pleasure, her gratitude, her love.
I scoop her up, careful of her belly, and carry her to the bed. I lay her down with reverence, brushing hair from her flushed cheeks, kissing her temple, her eyelids, her lips.
I undress, never letting my eyes leave hers, letting her see the hunger, the devotion, the fury still simmering in my veins.
I settle between her thighs, slow, deliberate.
I push inside her, inch by inch, watching her face for any sign of pain.
She arches for me, legs wrapping around my hips, breath hot in my ear.
We move together—slow, deep, every thrust a promise, every touch an anchor against the chaos outside these walls.
Her nails dig into my back, pulling me closer. “Simon, please…”
“I’m here,” I whisper, pressing my mouth to her shoulder, her throat, her lips. “I’m not letting go. I love you.”
She shudders, tears streaking her cheeks, and I kiss them away, thrusting deeper, harder, until we’re both trembling, undone. When she comes again, I follow, emptying myself inside her, claiming her, marking her, making her mine in every way that matters.
We collapse together, tangled and shaking. I pull her against my chest, wrap my arm around her, splay my hand over her belly. I feel her heartbeat steady, feel her breath even out, and for the first time all night, I start to believe she’s safe.
“I love you,” I say again, voice raw and fierce.
She lifts her head, eyes shining. “I love you too.”
Eden lies draped across my chest, her breath still uneven, her heartbeat echoing beneath my palm. Sweat beads at her hairline, and I brush it away, tucking loose strands behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense—just lets herself soften into me, our bodies tangled beneath the sheets.
I hold her close, feeling the last aftershocks of adrenaline slowly drain from my muscles. My hand never leaves her belly, as if by sheer will I can keep both her and our child safe.
Eden’s head rises and falls with every breath I take, and I can feel her smile, small and shaky, against my skin.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Words would feel too sharp in this fragile hush.
Instead, I focus on the details: the rhythm of her pulse against my chest, the heat of her skin where her thigh presses against mine, the small shiver that runs through her when my thumb draws circles across her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” I murmur finally, voice low, nearly swallowed by the darkness.
She nods, pressing her face into my chest. “I am now.” There’s a trembling honesty in her voice, a trust so complete it nearly undoes me.
I tilt her chin up, searching her eyes in the lamplight. Her lashes are damp, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my kisses. “I meant what I said,” I whisper, voice rough. “I love you. I’m never letting you go.”
A tear slides down her cheek—joy, relief, maybe a bit of leftover fear. I catch it with my thumb, brushing it away before it can fall.
“I know,” she says, her smile small but unbreakable. “I believe you.”
Something eases in my chest. I pull her up, guiding her to sit beside me so I can reach the nightstand. I pour a glass of water, pressing it into her hand, watching her drink, making sure her hands are steady.
She laughs a little, the sound light but real. “You’re fussing.”
“You scared me.” I stroke her arm, then settle my palm over her belly again. “He scared me.” My jaw clenches at the memory. “I should have—”
She shushes me, tracing my lips with her fingers. “You were there. That’s all that matters.”
The tension between us dissolves, replaced by something gentler—an intimacy more profound than desire. I gather the sheets around her, make sure she’s warm, then disappear into the bathroom for a damp cloth.
I clean her slowly, reverently, careful not to rush or startle her. She closes her eyes and lets me care for her, a quiet trust in every relaxed line of her body.
When I finish, I lie back beside her, cradling her against my side. She fits perfectly there, her head tucked under my chin, her hand resting over mine on her stomach. I pull the blankets up, cocooning us both from the world outside.
The room is warm, safe, full of the scent of sweat and sex and skin. My heartbeat slows as hers does, our breaths falling into an easy rhythm. I stroke her back, up and down, feeling the tension fade with every pass.
She shifts closer, pressing her nose to the hollow of my throat. “Will you be here when I wake up?” she asks, voice already thick with sleep.
“Yes.” The answer is automatic, the only promise I’ve ever meant without reservation.
Her hand finds mine, our fingers threading together. “Then I can sleep,” she murmurs. “Really sleep.”
I watch as her eyelids flutter, her breathing deepens, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling her under. The lines of worry and terror ease from her face, leaving her peaceful, beautiful, impossibly precious.
I hold her until I’m sure she’s lost to dreams. Only then do I allow myself to relax, to settle my head against the pillow, to let her warmth and her scent become the last thing I know before sleep claims me.
I drift on the edge of consciousness, one ear tuned to every sound—always listening, always vigilant, because I know the world isn’t done with us yet. For now, we are safe. She is safe. I will not let her go.
Before I follow her into sleep, I whisper into her hair, voice barely more than a promise to myself, “I love you. Nothing will ever take you from me.”
She stirs, just a little, and a soft smile curves her lips even as she sleeps. I draw her closer, my arm a shield around her and our child, and finally let the darkness take me.