Chapter 13 Salem #2
I’ll be “safe.” The team will move on. Ozzy will go back to his missions and his people and his life. And I’ll go back to… whatever life I can scrape together. My mom. Carl. My apartment. My job. My nothing.
I don’t deserve him. I don’t even know how to keep someone like him.
My throat tightens.
Ozzy’s hand strokes once, slow, down my back. “Breathe,” he murmurs.
I inhale shakily, then exhale. My body eases. Slightly.
Ozzy presses his lips lightly to my hair, so gentle it almost breaks me. “Better?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Better.”
His arm tightens a fraction. And the heat thickens. Because now I can feel everything. The hard plane of his stomach. The solid line of his thigh against mine. The way his breath catches when I scoot closer like I’m trying to crawl inside him.
Ozzy groans again, low, like he’s fighting something.
I lift my head slightly, peeking up at him in the dim light. His eyes are half-lidded, jaw tight.
“What?” I whisper.
Ozzy swallows. “Nothing.” His voice is shaky, and I want to call him a liar.
I want to make him tell me what he’s thinking at this very moment, but instead I sit here. I take in the feel of him. The feel of this. We lie like that in the quiet, wrapped together like it’s normal, like the world isn’t full of white vans and shadows.
Then my brain—my anxious, restless brain—goes searching for something else to hold onto.
A distraction.
A tether.
“So,” I whisper.
Ozzy hums, eyes still closed. “So.”
I swallow. “What’s your favorite thing to do?”
Ozzy’s eyes open slightly. “What?”
I shift, my cheek still against his chest. “We always talk about me. About what I want. What I’ve never done. What scares me. What I need.” My voice softens. “What about you?”
Ozzy goes still. For a second, I worry I pushed too far. Then he exhales slowly, like no one’s asked him that in a long time. “My favorite thing?” he repeats, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” I say. “What do you like? When you’re not… saving people. When you’re not doing missions. When you’re just… Ozzy.”
His fingers flex against my back. He looks toward the ceiling, thinking. Then, almost reluctantly, he says, “Throwing knives.”
I blink. “What?”
Ozzy’s mouth twitches. “I bet you didn’t expect that answer.”
I lift my head, eyes wide. “You throw knives?”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“Like—like in the movies?” I whisper, half excited, half horrified.
Ozzy’s eyes glint in the dim. “Like in real life.”
I stare at him, then grin despite myself. “That’s… actually kind of hot.”
Ozzy’s gaze snaps to mine. Heat flashes. His voice drops. “Careful.”
My breath catches. “Why?”
“Because if you keep saying things like that,” he murmurs, “I’m going to start forgetting why I’m supposed to be good.”
My stomach flips hard. I swallow, pulse racing. “Are you… supposed to be good?”
Ozzy’s jaw tightens, but his arm around me stays firm. “With you? Yeah.”
My voice comes out smaller than I mean. “Why?”
His eyes hold mine. Then he says, so quietly it’s almost a confession, “Because you deserve gentle.”
My chest tightens painfully. I look away fast, blinking hard. Then I force myself back to the knives because if I sit in that sentence too long, I might actually cry.
“You have knives here?” I ask.
Ozzy nods. “Always.”
“Always?” I repeat, fascinated.
He shifts slightly, careful not to break our hold, and reaches to the nightstand drawer. He opens it and pulls out a small roll of leather.
My eyes widen.
He unrolls it just enough to show me three sleek throwing knives, dark metal catching the lamplight.
“They’re… beautiful,” I whisper.
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “They’re tools.”
“Still beautiful,” I argue.
He looks at me like he’s amused and pleased and trying not to show either. “They balance a certain way,” he says. “Feels… right.”
I touch the leather carefully, not the blades. “How did you learn?”
Ozzy shrugs. “Picked it up. Practiced. Got good.”
Of course he did. He’s the kind of man who decides to master something and then just… does.
I bite my lip. “Will you teach me?”
Ozzy’s brows lift. “You want to learn how to throw knives?”
“Yes,” I say, the word quick and eager. “Tomorrow. Show me. Teach me.”
His gaze holds mine, something warm and protective flickering again. Then he nods once. “Okay.”
My chest lifts. “Promise?” I whisper.
Ozzy’s hand slides up my back, fingers threading lightly into my hair. “Promise.”
I settle back against him, smiling into his skin.
His arm tightens around me like he’s claiming the role I handed him. He’s my protector. And I’m completely okay with that. More than okay.
My eyes start to drift shut, my mind whispering all the things I don’t want to admit: I want him. I want this. I want a future that doesn’t end with me going back to scraps. But I don’t know how to ask for it. I don’t know if I’m allowed. So I’ll take what I can.
This moment.
This bed.
His strong arms around me. His quiet promise that tomorrow he’ll teach me something sharp and dangerous and empowering. And for now, while the house stays quiet and the night stays still— I let myself believe I’m safe. Even if it’s only for tonight.