Chapter 8 #3
I stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Just stared at him while those two words echoed in my skull.
Perfect.
Me.
The woman who'd sold out her friends. Who'd sent classified intelligence to a human trafficker allowing him to ruin untold lives. Who'd looked Jala in the eye every day and lied. Who'd been so stupid, so blind, that she'd fallen for Declan's manipulation in the first place.
Perfect.
He said it so simply. So certainly. Like it was just a fact. Like all the broken, complicit, damaged parts of me didn't matter. Like he saw past the shame and the guilt and the self-loathing to something I couldn't see myself.
"I'm not—" My voice came out strangled. Barely a whisper.
"To me you are." His hand came up, his fingers brushing my cheek so gently I almost didn't feel it. "Let me do this for you. Let me be the monster so you don't have to be."
He was asking me to trust him with my rage. My need for vengeance. The thing that had kept me going when nothing else could.
My hands were shaking so hard now I had to press them against his chest to steady them. I felt his heartbeat beneath my palms. Strong. Steady. Alive.
I stared at him. At this massive, powerful creature who'd been fighting himself to pieces for me. Who looked at me like I was something precious. Who wanted to take my vengeance on himself just so I wouldn't have to carry it.
Who thought I was perfect.
But I was so tired. So tired of carrying everything alone. So tired of being strong and calculating and never letting anyone in.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Promise me."
My fingers curled into the pelt of his chest. My whole body was shaking now, trembling with the effort of letting go.
"I promise."
Something in his expression softened. Relaxed. Like he'd been holding his breath and could finally let it out.
I went back to stitching his wounds, but everything felt different now. Charged. Every touch of my hands on his skin felt deliberate. Intimate. Every time our eyes met, something passed between us that I didn't have words for.
When I finished the last stitch, I didn't pull away immediately. My hands stayed on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the heat of him beneath my palms.
"Merrilee," he said, his voice rough.
I looked up.
The way he was looking at me made me want things I shouldn't want with someone I barely knew.
But I did know him. At least I knew the important things. I knew he'd fight until he broke to keep me safe. Knew he'd take my sins on himself if I'd let him. Knew that when he touched me, it was with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
"You should rest," I said, but I didn't move.
"So should you."
"Your ribs—"
"Will heal." His hand came up, cupping my face. "They always do."
"Not if you keep fighting."
"I'll keep fighting." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "As long as it takes."
"You're going to drive me crazy."
"Good." The corner of his mouth lifted. Almost a smile. "Then we're even."
I should have pulled away. Should have put distance between us. Should have remembered that this was temporary, that we were here for a mission, that getting attached was dangerous.
But I didn't.
I leaned into his touch instead, letting myself have this moment. This connection. This strange, impossible thing growing between us in the middle of hell.
"Rest," I said again, softer this time.
"Only if you stay."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He lay back slowly, carefully, and I helped him settle. Then I lay down beside him—not at the edge of the bed this time, but close enough that I felt his warmth. Close enough that if I reached out, I could touch him.
His hand found mine in the darkness.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For caring." His fingers laced through mine. "For worrying. For being here."
My throat went tight. "You're welcome."
Silence settled over us. But it wasn't empty. It was full of all the things we weren't saying.
I lay there in the dark, holding his hand, listening to his breathing even out as exhaustion finally claimed him.
And then it hit me.
Not gently. Not gradually.
Like a fist to the sternum.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs—once, twice, a frantic rhythm that hadn't to do with fear and everything to do with the realization crystallizing in my chest.
I cared about him.
Not just attraction. Not just gratitude for protection. Not the desperate clinging of someone who needs to survive. I cared about him—deeply, dangerously, in the way that made you stupid and vulnerable.
My hand trembled slightly in his. I felt his pulse against my palm—steady, strong, alive—and the sensation made my chest constrict until I could only gasp.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I was supposed to kill Hewes and walk away. No attachments. No vulnerabilities. No one who could be used against me ever again.
But now I had something to lose.
His breathing had settled into the deep, even rhythm of sleep. I felt the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth radiating from his body, the solid reality of him beside me in the dark. Safe. Alive. Mine in some way I didn't have words for yet.
And I would do anything to keep him that way.