31. Flynn
CHAPTER 31
FLYNN
The Thai place had been everything I’d promised—authentic enough to make Lyric close her eyes in pleasure at the first bite of green curry. But as good as dinner had been, I was more interested in showing her my new place. Not because it was impressive—just the opposite. I needed her to see how little I owned, how easily I could have disappeared again. I needed her to understand that choosing to stay was the biggest commitment I’d made in thirteen years.
“Home sweet home,” I said, unlocking the door to my twelfth-floor apartment. “Such as it is.”
Lyric stepped past me into the open-concept living area, her eyes taking in the sparse furnishings—a leather couch I’d picked up two days ago, a coffee table still bearing the assembly instructions, and not much else. The kitchen gleamed with unused appliances, and the dining area hosted a small table with exactly two chairs. No art on the walls, no photos, no personal touches at all. Just the essentials and the spectacular view of Puget Sound through floor-to-ceiling windows.
“It’s very...” Lyric paused, searching for a diplomatic word.
“Empty?” I supplied, closing the door behind us. “Yeah, I know.”
She turned to me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I was going to say ‘minimalist,’ but empty works too.”
I shrugged, tossing my keys on the kitchen counter. “Never saw much point in accumulating stuff when I might need to bug out at a moment’s notice.”
“And now?” She moved to the windows, silhouetted against the city lights reflecting off the dark water of Puget Sound below.
I came up behind her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. “Now I’m thinking maybe a bookshelf. Some actual dishes instead of takeout containers.”
“Wild,” she teased, but I could hear the underlying question. Was I really staying? Could she trust that I wouldn’t disappear again?
Damn Ethan for not telling her I hadn’t abandoned her; I was just off the grid. And damn myself for not taking the time to tell her myself.
“I picked this place for the view,” I told her, deflecting slightly. “And the security. Reinforced door, keycard elevator access, digital locks, and clear sightlines to all approach vectors.”
“The real estate agent must have loved that particular request.”
I laughed. “She thought I was paranoid. Showed me some ground-floor units with ‘charming garden access’ until I explained I preferred not to be murdered in my sleep.”
Lyric’s smile was more genuine this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But alive,” I countered. “Want the tour? It’s pretty quick—living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. End of tour.”
She followed me through the apartment, her fingers trailing over surfaces as if testing their solidity. In the bedroom, a king-sized mattress sat on a simple frame, still unmade from where I’d rolled out of it this morning. A duffel bag rested in one corner, half-unpacked, and a gun safe was bolted to the closet wall—the only thing I’d installed permanently so far.
“I see the priorities,” Lyric said, nodding toward the safe.
“I’m setting down roots, not going soft.”
She snorted and continued exploring the space. She paused by the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out over downtown Seattle. I waited, watching, trying to read her expression. Something was off. There was a tightness around her eyes, a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there during dinner.
I crossed to her and turned her gently by the shoulders to face me. “Lyric, I know words don’t mean much after I disappeared on you. But I need you to understand something.” I gestured at the empty apartment. “This isn’t just a place to crash between missions. This is me putting down roots for the first time since Yemen.”
Her green eyes searched mine, and I hated that look of guarded suspicion. Hated that she had every right to doubt me.
If I had to spend every second of the rest of my life earning her trust back, I would.
“Roots,” I added softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “for you. I want you to live here with me.”
Her eyes widened slightly at that, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed. The defensive wall she’d maintained all evening faltered, just for a moment.
“Flynn,” she breathed. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Yes, I can.” I stepped closer and curled my hand around the back of her neck, drawing her closer. “Because it’s true.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor between us, and I felt her shiver beneath my touch. “What if it doesn’t work? What if this—us—falls apart? Then what?”
“Princess, we survived Sentinel together. We can survive anything.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, and the vulnerability in her voice cut through me. “Surviving drones and arms dealers is one thing. This—” she gestured between us, “—is something else entirely.”
I traced my thumb along her jawline, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my touch. “I know it scares you. It scares me too.”
Her eyes met mine, surprise flashing across her face. “You? Scared?”
“Terrified,” I admitted. “I’ve spent thirteen years making sure I never needed anyone. Then you walked into my life on those dagger-sharp heels and glared at me, and everything changed.”
“After Elodie died,” she said quietly, “I promised myself I’d never be vulnerable again. That I’d never give anyone the power to devastate me like that. And then you—” Her voice caught. “You nearly died in my arms, Flynn. Your heart stopped.”
“It didn’t stop. It just… wasn’t beating right for a few minutes.”
She shot me the same glare that made me fall head-over-heels in love with her in Monte Carlo. “You’re not helping yourself here, buddy.”
“You’re right.” I let my hands fall away from her face and took a step back, giving her room to breathe, to think. “I did almost die, and it scared the hell out of me, too. I cope with that by being glib. I’m sorry.”
The space between us felt suddenly vast. My heart hammered against my ribs as I watched her struggle with whatever was going on inside her head.
“You okay?” I asked finally.
She nodded too quickly. “Fine.”
“Lyric.” I kept my voice soft. “It’s me.”
Her composure cracked, just a hairline fracture, but I saw it—the slight tremble of her lower lip before she caught it between her teeth. She turned toward the window again, arms wrapped around herself like armor.
“I lied,” she said so quietly I had to strain to hear. “I’m not fine.”
I moved to stand beside her, but didn’t touch her again. “Want to talk about it?”
She was silent for so long I thought she might not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice had a brittle quality that made my chest ache.
“I can’t stop feeling his hands.”
I didn’t need to ask whose hands. Moreau. The memory of him touching her while she was paralyzed, helpless, made rage coil in my gut like a venomous snake. I’d killed men for less, but Moreau was already dead by Lyric’s own hand. There was no one left to punish.
“Every night,” she continued, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window, “I wake up feeling them. His fingers on my face, in my hair… everywhere.” She shuddered. “He touched me like he owned me, Flynn. And I couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight back. Couldn’t even tell him to go to hell.”
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached, fighting to keep my expression neutral. She didn’t need my anger right now; she needed my support.
“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing the words were woefully inadequate. “I wish I could’ve stopped him.”
She shook her head, finally turning to face me. In the low light, her green eyes were dark with memory. “You were right beside me, just as helpless. That’s not why I’m telling you this.”
“Then why?”
Her gaze dropped to my chest, then back to my face, her eyes huge and glassy. “I need you to help me forget his hands.”
Fuck. The lump rose up hard and fast in my throat, nearly strangling me. My Lyric was not fragile, but right now she might shatter if I touched her wrong. I’d seen her face down arms dealers and killer drones without flinching, but this—this raw vulnerability—was something else entirely.
I understood what she was asking. Not just sex—we’d had that already. She was asking me to overwrite a violation with something healing. To replace the memory of Moreau’s unwanted touch with something chosen. Something safe.
I had to clear my throat twice before I could respond, but my voice still sounded like gravel. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, closing the distance between us until I could feel her breath warm against my neck. “Please. You’re the only one who can. The only one I trust enough.” Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt. “I need this, Flynn. I need you.”
I raised my hands slowly, telegraphing each movement, and cradled her face between my palms. Her skin felt like warm silk beneath my calloused fingers. “If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you tell me to stop. Promise?”
“I promise.” She closed her eyes and leaned into my touch, a shuddering breath escaping her as I cupped her cheek. I brushed away a wayward tear with my thumb, my heart breaking and healing all at once as she pressed against my hand.
“Okay?” I asked.
“More than okay,” she murmured.
I bent my head and brushed my lips against hers in the barest whisper of a kiss. She leaned into me, her hands coming up to grip my biceps, anchoring herself. I kept the kiss achingly tender, fighting against the desire to deepen it, to claim her mouth the way my body was screaming to do.
This wasn’t about me. This was about Lyric reclaiming herself, her body, her choice.
When she parted her lips, inviting me deeper, I followed her lead, letting her set the pace. Her fingers slid up my arms to my shoulders, then around my neck, pulling me closer with growing confidence. The kiss deepened, her tongue brushing mine, sending heat spiraling through me.
I kept my hands where they were, framing her face, resisting the urge to explore further until she showed me she wanted more. This had to be her choice, every step of the way.
She broke the kiss, her breathing uneven, and rested her forehead against mine. “You can touch me, Flynn,” she whispered. “I want you to.”
Slowly, I let my hands drift down her neck, over her shoulders, tracing the elegant line of her collarbone with my thumbs. She shivered, but her eyes remained locked on mine, the haunted look replaced by heat.
“Still okay?” I asked.
She nodded, reaching for the hem of my shirt. “Take this off.”
I complied, pulling the henley over my head and letting it drop to the floor. Her gaze traveled over my chest, lingering on the pink, freshly healed scars. Her fingertips traced the jagged line where Moreau’s blade had nearly ended me, her touch feather-light and reverent. I fought to keep my breathing steady as her hand drifted lower, mapping the constellation of old scars and fresh wounds that told the story of my life.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” I lied. It still twinged when I moved too quickly, but that was nothing compared to seeing the shadow in her eyes when she looked at it.
Her eyes lifted to mine, something raw and aching flickering behind the green.
“You shouldn’t have had to take that hit for me,” she murmured.
I caught her hand before she could pull it back, pressed it flat against the scar.
“I would’ve taken worse,” I said quietly. “Gladly.”
Her throat worked like she was swallowing words she couldn’t quite say.
Instead, she curled her fingers over my heart and held on.
I leaned in, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me what you want, Lyric. Tell me what you need.”
“I want to feel only you. Your hands. Your touch.” Her voice dropped lower and her hands slid up my chest to link behind my neck, drawing me closer. “What I need is to feel safe again. And I feel safe with you, Flynn.”
A single sentence, and it leveled me. Trust from Lyric Renard wasn’t given easily—I’d learned that much in the short time I’d known her. The fact that she felt safe with me, that she was choosing to be vulnerable with me, was more significant than any declaration of love could have been.
I brushed my thumb across her cheekbone, tracing the spot where a faint bruise still discolored her skin. “Then I’ll keep you safe.”
This time when our lips met, the kiss deepened. Her body relaxed against mine degree by degree, tension melting away as her mouth opened under mine. My hands stayed carefully in neutral territory, framing her face, until her fingers closed around my wrists, guiding them to her waist.
“Touch me,” she murmured against my lips. “Make me forget.”
“Whatever you need, princess,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “However you need it.”