Chapter 8 #4
"My brave little bird," he murmured into my hair, and something in my chest clenched at the endearment.
Little bird—small, fluttering, fragile. Everything I'd spent years trying not to be.
But from him, in that rough voice, it didn't sound like weakness.
It sounded like something precious he'd decided to protect.
"I'm not brave," I whispered against his chest.
"You are." His hand moved in my hair, fingers gentle against my scalp. "You survived six months alone. You saved my life while yours was falling apart. You transcribed sixty-three cases of horror because it needed doing. That's bravery."
"That's just stubbornness."
"Same thing sometimes." I felt him smile against my hair. "But right now, you don't have to be either. Don't have to be strong or smart or together. You can just be small. I've got you."
The permission in those words—I've got you—broke something in me that had been holding rigid for months, maybe years.
My body went liquid against his, all the tension I'd been carrying released in a rush that left me boneless.
I pressed my face into his chest, breathing him in, and let myself be held for the first time since before everything went wrong.
His hand kept moving in my hair, a steady rhythm that made my eyes heavy. The other arm stayed firm around me, not trapping but anchoring, keeping me tethered to something solid while everything else floated away.
"The man who hurt you," he said quietly, and I felt the vibration of his voice through his chest. "Marlon. He's in Cleveland?"
"Why?" Though I already knew why. Could hear the calculation in his tone, the casual way someone might ask about the weather while planning murder.
"Just curious."
"You can't kill everyone who's ever hurt me."
"Perhaps." His arm tightened fractionally. "But I'll settle for making sure no one hurts you again. Starting now."
The tablet was still playing somewhere in the sheets, Bluey's dad saying something about how everyone needs help sometimes, even grown-ups.
Especially grown-ups. The synchronicity of it might have been funny if I hadn't been so overwhelmed by the feeling of safety that came from being held by someone dangerous enough to make that safety real.
"I don't know how to do this," I admitted, the words muffled against his chest.
"Do what?"
"Let someone take care of me. Trust someone with this part of me. It’s why I’ve been avoiding you. You probably noticed.”
He gave me a grin. It lit his face up.
“Every time I've tried to trust someone, it's been weaponized."
His hand stilled in my hair for a moment, then resumed its soothing motion. "Then we go slow. You show me what you need when you're ready. I'll be here regardless."
"What if I'm never ready?"
"Then I'll still be here." Simple. Matter-of-fact. Like patience was infinite when it came to me.
I pulled back enough to look at his face, needing to see his eyes when I asked the next question. "What do you want from this? From me?"
His gray eyes were dark in the fading light, pupils dilated. His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip with a touch so light it might have been imagination.
"Everything," he said simply. "I want to be the person you come to when the world gets too heavy. Want to hold you when you're small and soft and needing care. Want to command you when you need someone else to make decisions. Want to protect you, provide for you, be the safe place you can rest."
My breath stuttered. "That's very Daddy of you."
The words slipped out before I could stop them—too honest, too revealing, too much. But his eyes darkened further, and a sound rumbled from his chest that was almost a growl.
"Is that what you need?" His thumb pressed slightly harder against my lip, not quite breaching but asking. "A Daddy to take care of his little bird?"
Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly with an intensity that made me squirm against him. Which was a mistake, because it brought me into contact with evidence that this conversation was affecting him too—the hard length pressing against my hip through his jeans.
"I don't know," I whispered, but we both knew I was lying.
"Liar." He said it with affection, almost amused. "Your body knows. Your mind just hasn't caught up yet."
He was right. My body had known from the first time he said "good girl".
"It's dangerous," I said, last defense against the inevitable.
"Everything worth having is." His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, a possessive grip that made me shiver. "But you're already mine, little bird. Have been since you saved my life. We're just negotiating terms."
The arrogance of it should have made me angry. Instead, it made me wet, aching. This was physical need mixing with emotional want, creating something combustible.
"If we do this—" I started.
"When," he corrected. "When we do this."
"When," I agreed, and felt something shift in my chest, like tectonic plates realigning. "I need to know you won't use it against me. Won't tell anyone. Won't decide I'm too broken to—"
He kissed me.
Not soft like I expected, but consuming.
His hand in my hair tightened, angling my head where he wanted it, while his tongue claimed my mouth with a thoroughness that left no room for doubt.
He kissed me like he was branding me, like he was writing his name on my soul, like he was swearing an oath with his mouth instead of words.
When he pulled back, I was gasping, dizzy, completely undone.
"Anyone who tries to use your softness against you will answer to me," he said against my lips. "And little bird? You're not broken. You're a survivor. There's a difference."
I believed him. God help me, I believed this dangerous man with his gentle hands and protective fury. Believed that maybe, possibly, I could have this—safety and desire and the space to be small when I needed it.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay, we can try this. Whatever this is."
His smile this time was softer, pleased in a way that made my chest warm. "Good girl."
The words went through me like electricity, setting every nerve ending alight. He noticed—of course he noticed—and his smile turned knowing.
"We're going to be very good together, little bird," he murmured, pulling me back against his chest. "But right now, you're going to rest. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I closed my eyes, surrounded by his warmth and strength, and for the first time in six months—maybe longer—I felt safe. Safe enough to be small. Safe enough to need. Safe enough to want.
Safe enough to fall.