Chapter 38 #2
And I had to confess; I need time to sort through my past.
My childhood had been about running, hiding, danger, being left alone.
While other girls were going to prom, I was at the firing range or dodging cops while driving getaway cars.
But this morning, I’m having flashes of my earlier years, happier days. Of my mom when I was really little.
She was caring, nurturing. I recall her rocking me, singing a lullaby to ease me back into sleep.
Those moments?
That’s what I want.
And I know Stryker will be protective, maybe ultraprotective. Any family we have together will be well taken care of.
In this moment, with his strong hands caring for me, I allow the fantasy to unfurl.
I still have some uncertainty about my personal situation being resolved. But as he asked, I’ve placed my full trust in Stryker. Even if something does go sideways in this process, I know he’ll have my back and risk his life to save mine.
I’ve even extended that trust to Inamorata and Hawkeye—the very people I’d been convinced were my enemy.
I know they’re as good as their word.
And if all goes according to plan, my name will be cleared. Their plan to protect me from Bratva forever is big and bold, so audacious it might actually work.
A few moments later, he leaves me, promising to return with my chai.
The water cools a little, to the perfect temperature for soaking, steam curling around my shoulders, the scent of lavender in the air.
My body feels loose and heavy, every muscle humming with the pleasant ache of being thoroughly claimed. I lean my head back against the porcelain rim and let my eyes drift shut, listening to the soft clink of ceramic on the counter as he moves around the kitchen.
The domestic sounds ground me in a way nothing ever has. A spoon against a pan. The low whistle of the kettle. The quiet thud of the fridge door. All of it ordinary. All of it miraculous.
The bathroom door opens without a knock. He never knocks anymore. He doesn’t have to.
I open my eyes, and there he is, filling the doorway like he was carved for it.
His black T-shirt is stretched across his chest. The sleeves are tight around biceps that flex when he shifts his weight. Tactical pants ride low on his hips, and even his boots are sexy.
He holds my favorite oversize mug in one hand, and steam rises in delicate spirals.
He crosses the tile in three silent strides and crouches beside the tub to offer me the beverage.
Our fingers brush as I take it. The ceramic is almost too hot, but I welcome the burn.
The first sip slides down my throat and spreads warmth through my chest like liquid sunlight.
Perfect. Always perfect.
But surprising me, he doesn’t leave.
Instead, he leans one shoulder against the doorjamb, arms folding loosely across his chest, and watches me with that lazy, predatory patience that makes my pulse stutter even now.
Water droplets cling to my collarbone. His gaze tracks them like he’s memorizing the path they take before they disappear between my breasts.
I take another slow sip, letting the spice bloom on my tongue, and something tight inside me unwinds further with every swallow. And then the image hits me, unbidden and so vivid I nearly drop the mug.
Stryker holding a baby.
Our baby.
Tiny fists curled against his massive chest. His huge hand cradling a head no bigger than his palm.
The same fierce tenderness in his eyes that he gives me now, only softer.
He’s sleep-deprived and unshaven and utterly, terrifyingly devoted.
Whispering nonsense in that gravel voice while the infant looks up at him.
Rocking in the dark when nightmares come, the way my mother once rocked me before the world turned sharp and dangerous.
The picture is so clearly focused that my lungs forget how to work.
A future. Not just tomorrow. Not just next week. Years. Decades. Gray in his hair. My hand in his when we’re old and creaky and still reaching for each other in the night.
For the first time in my life, I let myself want it. Not as fantasy. As something that could actually belong to me.
He tilts his head, reading me the way he always does. The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and knowing.
I set the mug carefully on the wide rim of the tub and meet his eyes.
He hasn’t moved, but the air has changed. Thickened. Charged.
His gaze drags down my body beneath the water, lingering on the way my nipples tighten under his stare, on the faint flush spreading across my chest. When he looks up again, his expression is wolfish.
My breath catches.
He’s hard.
Visibly, unmistakably hard, straining against the front of those tactical pants like the fabric personally offends him.
I blink, heat rushing to my cheeks even as slick warmth pools between my thighs again. “You’re ready again?”
The words come out soft. Wondering. A little awed.
He pushes off the doorframe in one fluid motion, closing the distance until he’s kneeling beside the tub, one hand braced on the edge, the other sliding into my wet hair. His thumb strokes my lower lip, rough and possessive.
“When it comes to you, Lyra,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate through the water and into my bones, “I’m always ready.”
His mouth crashes into mine, chai and cedar and raw want, and I know, without a doubt, that he’s about to pull me from this tub and ruin me all over again…