Chapter 7
Violet
He doesn’t let me walk.
Not even to the bedroom.
One minute I’m still straddling him on the couch, our breathing slowly evening out. The next, his arms tighten around me and he stands, lifting me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I let out a small, startled laugh, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Blade—”
“Bed,” he murmurs, voice rough but softer now. Not commanding. Just certain.
I don’t argue.
I don’t want to.
He carries me down the short hallway, bare feet silent against the wood. The bedroom is simple. Large bed. Dark sheets. A window facing the trees. Moonlight spilling in.
He lowers me carefully, like I might bruise if he moves too fast.
Then he slides in beside me and pulls the covers over us.
No rush.
No urgency.
Just the slow weight of his body settling next to mine.
He draws me against him automatically, one arm around my waist, my back to his chest. His palm spreads low on my stomach, anchoring me there.
I fit.
That thought is dangerous.
I fit here.
My body is still humming from everything we did, every touch, every whispered word. But under that hum is something steadier. Something deeper.
Hours ago, I was in a club bathroom trying not to panic while a man decided I didn’t get to say no.
I remember the way his fingers pressed into my thigh. The way he smiled like I should be grateful for his attention. The way my lungs felt too small.
I remember thinking I might have to go with him just to avoid making it worse.
The thought makes my stomach twist now.
And then I remember the doors slamming open.
The cold air.
Blade.
The way he looked at me like he’d already decided.
The way he said, “Get your hands off my woman.”
My woman.
It should have terrified me.
Instead, it felt like rescue.
Now I’m here.
In his bed.
Under his covers.
Marked in ways that have nothing to do with bruises and everything to do with choice.
It was fast.
Too fast, by any reasonable standard.
I lost my virginity on a kitchen table, in a cabin with a man fifteen years older than me. A man with scars and ghosts and a voice that sounds like gravel and smoke.
But when I search myself for regret, I don’t find it.
I find certainty.
It didn’t feel reckless.
It felt inevitable.
Like something that had been building the second our eyes locked across that club.
He didn’t force me.
He didn’t manipulate me.
He warned me.
Twice.
And I still leaned in.
I shift slightly, turning in his arms so I can look at him.
His eyes are already closed.
The hard lines of his face have softened in sleep. The tension is looser now.
I trace the scar near his temple gently, the one that tightened earlier tonight when he was angry.
His brow twitches faintly, but he doesn’t wake.
His arm tightens around me in response, even asleep.
Possessive.
Protective.
Mine.
The word feels different now.
Not ownership.
Belonging.
I close my eyes and let sleep take me.
I don’t know how much time passes before I wake.
At first, I think it’s the wind.
The trees scraping against the cabin.
Then I realize the sound isn’t outside.
It’s beside me.
A sharp inhale.
Too sharp.
Blade’s body goes rigid behind me.
His arm tightens painfully around my waist.
“Down!” he snarls, voice raw and unfamiliar.
My heart leaps into my throat.
He shoves me instinctively, rolling partially over me, his body half covering mine like a shield.
His breathing is ragged.
Panicked.
“Blade,” I whisper.
He doesn’t hear me.
His eyes are open but not seeing.
They’re somewhere else.
His chest heaves, sweat already beading at his hairline.
“Blade,” I say again, louder.
His hand grips the sheet like it’s a weapon.
“Clear the—” he starts, voice breaking.
I turn fully toward him and grab his face with both hands.
“Blade.”
His eyes finally focus.
Blue.
Wild.
Lost.
Then he sees me.
Sees the room.
Sees the dark wooden walls instead of whatever memory had him trapped.
His breathing stutters.
His hand loosens on the sheet.
“I’m here,” I say softly. “You’re here. Cabin. It’s just us.”
He blinks once.
Twice.
The tension in his shoulders trembles before easing by degrees.
His gaze drops to me.
To the way I’m holding him.
And something flickers across his face.
Shame.
He pulls back slightly.
“I didn’t—” he starts, then stops.
“You didn’t hurt me,” I say quickly.
He looks at his own hands like he doesn’t trust them.
“I shouldn’t—”
“You warned me,” I remind him gently.
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Silence hangs heavy between us.
He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Moonlight outlines his back, the scars crossing his skin like old maps.
I sit up too.
“You were somewhere else,” I say quietly.
His shoulders go still.
He doesn’t turn around.
“It happens,” he says flatly.
“How often?”
He doesn’t answer.
That’s answer enough.
I slide closer behind him and wrap my arms around his waist.
For a split second, he goes rigid again.
Then he exhales.
“You don’t have to do that,” he mutters.
“I know.”
But I don’t let go.
He covers my hands with one of his.
His skin is still warm, but his pulse is racing.
“I don’t like not being in control,” he says after a moment.
“I noticed.”
A faint, humorless huff escapes him.
“I could’ve hurt you.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
I rest my cheek against his back.
“You’re not the only one with ghosts,” I say quietly.
He turns his head slightly, enough to look at me over his shoulder.
“My mother used to bring men home,” I continue. “I’d lock my bedroom door and listen to them argue. Sometimes I’d think one of them would break it down.”
His expression shifts.
“That never happened,” I add. “But the fear did. And sometimes I still wake up thinking I hear footsteps.”
The admission feels raw.
But I don’t regret it.
“We’re not our worst moments,” I say softly.
He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I believe that.
“Why aren’t you scared of me?” he asks.
I think about it.
I think about the club.
About his voice.
About the way he carried me.
“I am,” I admit.
His eyes darken.
“But not in the way you think.”
He turns fully now, facing me.
Moonlight cuts across his face.
“I’m scared of losing this,” I say. “Not of you.”
Something in his expression breaks open slightly.
Small.
But real.
He pulls me back down into the bed and this time, when he wraps his arms around me, it feels different.
Less claiming.
More holding.
“Sleep,” he murmurs into my hair.
“You too,” I whisper.
His breathing gradually evens out.
I stay awake. Listening.
Feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The man who stormed into a club without hesitation.
The man who warned me he doesn’t do gentle.
The man who wakes up screaming.
He’s not invincible.
He’s not just Blade.
He’s human.
And somehow that makes him feel even bigger.
More real.
More dangerous.
And more mine.