30. Rowan
ROWAN
I’m not sure what I expected when Justin brought me here after the attack.
A safe house, maybe. A faceless hotel with neutral walls. Somewhere temporary. Somewhere that wouldn’t leave fingerprints on my memory.
Not a church.
And I definitely didn’t expect to wake up wrapped in his arms, my body still warm from his, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this was where I belonged all along.
Yet here I am.
I sit on the edge of the bed with a blanket pulled tight around my shoulders, my hair still damp from the shower.
My muscles ache in that deep, satisfying way that comes from being thoroughly undone—used, touched, claimed and touched again.
There’s a heaviness in my limbs, a looseness I’m not used to.
As if my body finally let go of something it’s been bracing against for far too long.
I should be spiraling. I should be overthinking what it means that we crossed that line—and then crossed it again. And again. Like we were making up for lost time neither of us could spare.
But I’m not unraveling. Because Justin is here.
He doesn’t crowd me. Doesn’t ask questions or fill the silence with reassurance I don’t ask for. He stands nearby, quiet and watchful, a presence more than a person right now. A sentinel. Someone who would move in an instant if I so much as flinched.
It strikes me how careful he’s being. How restrained.
He sits in a chair in the corner of the room, arms folded, posture relaxed but alert. I know—I know—that every instinct in him wants to cross the distance between us. To pull me into his lap. To touch, to feel, to make sure I’m still here.
But he doesn’t. He gives me space. Room to breathe. Time to come back into myself. And somehow, that does more to steady me than anything else could.
The room is quiet in that way old places get when they’re holding secrets. I can hear the faint hum of machinery somewhere deeper in the building—servers, maybe. Technology threaded through ancient stone. It feels like a heartbeat. Like the place is alive now, rewired into something new.
I find myself staring at a thin crack in the wall above the door, tracing it with my eyes like it might tell me something if I look long enough.
Then the smell hits. Food. Real food. Warm. Savory. Unapologetic. It slips under the door and curls through the room, tugging at something deep and forgotten. It smells like nourishment. Like comfort. Like a life where someone thought to care.
Heat coiled low and sharp in my belly—not with hunger alone, but with the ache of being reminded how long it’s been since I felt this… normal.
A second later, a voice follows. Low. Feminine and unfamiliar.
“Open up, sinner.”
The words are amused, wry. Patient in a way that suggests the visitor is used to Justin ignoring her.
Justin doesn’t even look surprised. He doesn’t answer, either. The door swings open anyway, nudged by a hip like it’s been done a thousand times before. And suddenly I understand that this has happened so many times before that it’s become routine.
A woman strides in with easy confidence, a glass dish wrapped in foil cradled in her hands, steam curling up around her. She sets it down on the table without ceremony, then takes in the room with a slow, assessing glance.
My gaze locks on her immediately, because she’s impossible not to look at.
She has a short blonde pixie cut, the ends dipped in purple like she got bored of being ordinary and decided to defy society.
Crystal-green eyes that don’t just see you—they own your every breath.
She’s wearing black leggings and a hoodie, casual, but her energy fills the room like she brought her own oxygen.
She’s tall, though not intimidating in size, and she moves like someone who has never once asked permission to take up space.
“I figured the saint of sleepless nights could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine,” she muses, looking at Justin.
Justin’s mouth twitches. “Bold assumption.”
“No one’s ever accused me of being timid,” she replies easily. “Or wrong.”
She turns then—finally noticing me.
Or maybe she noticed me the second she walked in and just wanted to let me watch her first.
Her eyes sweep me. Not rude or pitying. Just thorough. Taking in the blanket. My scar. The bruises on my throat. My hands clench of their own accord, a thread of anxiety rippling through me.
What do others see when they look at me?
Then her gaze flicks to Justin. Back to me. Something passes between them in that look. Something lived-in. Familiar. A language I no longer speak. My chest tightens.
Sister. The realization lands like a cold hand over my mouth. Justin has a sister. How did I not know that? She’s standing here like living proof. Like a secret he didn’t bother to mention because it didn’t occur to him that I might want to know.
Justin doesn’t introduce her. She doesn’t introduce herself either. Of course she doesn’t.
She just crosses the room and sets another bundle on the desk—cutlery, napkins—like she planned for this exact moment. She seems like the type who plans for everything.
Then she points at Justin with her chin. “You’d better eat this,” she warns. “I made it myself.”
He stands and walks to the table, then peels back the foil. The heat punches up into the air. The smell is so warm it almost hurts.
“Chicken and rice,” he muses, before he covers the casserole again.
His sister—because she is, I’m sure now—leans back against the desk and scans the room out of habit. The ceiling. The corners. The doorway. She moves like she’s memorized exits the way other people memorize phone numbers.
And something about that makes my throat tighten even more. Because I recognize it. I used to have someone who moved like that with me.
Missy.
I tuck my hands under the blanket, clench and unclench. Because I can’t help it. I force my breathing to stay even. I do not go there. Not now.
The sister’s gaze drifts back to me again, softer this time. Still sharp. But less… assessing.
“Who’s she?” she asks Justin bluntly, jerking her chin toward me.
Justin doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flick to mine first, like he’s considering how much to give her.
“This is Rowan,” he introduces me finally. “She’s staying here.”
The sister’s eyebrows lift. “Staying here, or staying with you?”
Justin’s jaw tightens. “Bethany.”
So that’s her name. Bethany. It fits her—bright and biting at the same time.
She looks at Justin like she’s not even slightly scared of him. Like she’s been unimpressed by his intimidation since childhood.
“And why have you been hiding her from me?”
Then she looks back at me, and her face softens just a fraction—not into sympathy or pity. Just… understanding.
Justin shoots her a look. Bethany ignores it. I have a feeling she does that alot.
“How did you not tell me you had a sister?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The words come out sharper than I mean them to. Not accusing. Just… surprised.
Justin’s eyes flick to me. Then to Bethany. Like it genuinely didn’t occur to him that this would matter.
Bethany’s grin turns wicked. “Aw. He didn’t mention me? That’s just rude.”
Justin exhales through his nose. “It wasn’t relevant.”
Bethany scoffs. “Nothing to you is relevant until it is.”
Then she steps closer, dropping her voice slightly so it feels like it’s meant for me, not him. “He forgets normal people have normal questions.”
I stiffen at normal people. I’m not normal. Not anymore. Maybe I’ll never be again.
Her green eyes flick to my throat again. Then back to my face.
“You’re safe here,” she reassures me, and for the first time, her voice loses its edge. “No one’s getting through those doors.”
I want to believe her. I hate how much I want to.
Justin shifts, like the room is getting too tight. His attention flicks to the corner of the room. Something unreadable moves behind his eyes.
A possessive pull snaps tight inside me.
Bethany follows his gaze and sighs. “You’re going out.”
Justin doesn’t bother denying it. “I have to.”
“No, you want to,” she corrects sharply. “You always want to. Because sitting still means you have to feel things.”
Justin’s expression hardens. “Beth.”
She holds his stare. “Justin.”
The way she says his name is different than anyone else I’ve ever heard. Not reverent. Not careful. Like she’s holding the leash of the monster and refuses to pretend he isn’t one.
And then she glances at me again, and something flickers in her face. A decision.
She turns fully toward Justin. “I’ll stay. You go. Do what you have to do.”
Justin’s gaze shifts to me. He looks like he’s trying to give me an option without saying the words.
“Can you spare a few hours?” He asks her, turning back to his sister.
My throat tightens again. He’s leaving. I should feel relieved. I should want space. I don’t.
Bethany looks at me now, and her expression turns unexpectedly gentle—still sharp around the edges, but kinder.
“If you’ll have me.”
A laugh catches in my chest and dies there. Have her? Like I’m hosting a tea party and not sitting in a church-turned-bunker with bruises on my throat.
I nod once. “Yes.”
Bethany’s smile flashes—bright, quick. “Good. I’m great in a crisis. Mediocre at small talk. But I make a mean cup of tea.”
Justin watches the exchange like he’s committing it to memory. Then he leans down slightly, close enough that I can smell him.
His voice drops.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
It’s not a promise he makes lightly.
My chest tightens anyway. “Do you have to—”
“I do,” he cuts in, soft but absolute.
And then he’s moving—grabbing his jacket, checking something on his phone, the entire room shifting around the fact that he’s about to vanish into the city again.
Bethany watches him go with an expression that’s too knowing, too practiced.
When the door shuts, the silence is different. Not empty. Just… strange.
Bethany turns back to me, perches on the edge of the desk, and studies me like she’s figuring out how to speak to a toddler.
“So,” her voice is light but her eyes are serious as she looks at me “tell me something, Rowan.”
I lift my chin. “What?”
Her smile is a little wicked again. A little too real.
“What did my brother do to make you look at him like you want to bite him?”
My breath catches.
And Bethany’s laugh is soft as she watches me struggle not to laugh.