Chapter 12 #4
“Willow,” I rasp, my throat thick, “you were a kid. He was a predator. That wasn’t sex. That wasn’t love. That was him stealing something he had no right to.”
Her eyes flash, but not with anger—with relief. Like someone finally said what she’s been trying to convince herself of for a decade.
And in that moment, I make a vow. If nothing ever happens between us, if she never wants to be touched again, I’ll live with that.
What happened to her makes my chest burn.
It makes me want to smash every piece of furniture in this penthouse.
I want to go back in time and put my own hands around Porter Young’s throat.
But all I can do is sit here with the woman who had to do it, who’s carried that weight alone all these years.
I squeeze her hand tighter. “You didn’t kill a man, Willow. He wasn’t worthy of the word. You took out a disease.”
Her lips tremble. “I still feel… ruined,” she says the word in a whisper. “Every time I’ve tried to go anywhere with a man, any time I’ve caught feelings and wanted to do things with him, it all creeps back in. The shame. The anger. The violence. And I just… can’t.”
Ruined. That word wrecks me. “No.” My voice comes out rough, fierce.
“You are not ruined, Willow. You are the sharpest, strongest thing I’ve ever seen.
You survived him. You ended him. But if you never want anyone to touch you again, I’ll—” My throat locks up, but I force it out.
“You are yours, and yours alone. And I swear with every bone in my body that I’ll never, ever push you.
I might have done some things I’m not proud of in the past, but Willow, I swear it, you’ll always, always be safe when it comes to me. ”
Fuck, the words are agony to speak. The way I want this woman is soul-consuming. I want every single bit of her. But if keeping my hands off of her is what she needs, that’s what I’m going to give her.
Willow’s eyes glisten once more, and this time, the emotions are different.
She doesn’t speak, she just lets go of my hand, and climbs across the couch to fold into my lap like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her afloat.
I hold her, arms banded tight around her, and bury my face in her hair.
She smells like incense and tea leaves, blood and salvation.
It hits me, sharp and undeniable: I’m not just obsessed with her. I am one-hundred-percent in love with Willow Vale.
I sit there, breathing her in, letting her heartbeat hammer against mine. No stage lights, no masks, no Saint Shade. Just me. Just Lucky. We’ve borne every part of ourselves to the other, and we’re both still here. She’s still here in my arms.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. Her breath warms my chest, and it’s the kind of warmth that reaches all the way into your soul.
“For listening. For being you.” Her grip on my shirt tightens, and she turns her face into my chest. “And please don’t doubt it for a second, Lucky.
I want you,” she admits, and it sets all of my nerves on fire.
“I’m still learning how to want someone without falling apart—but don’t worry, I’m a fast learner when the motivation’s good. ”
She’s so good at it—getting me to laugh at moments that should be filled with weight. But one comes out of my lips. I squeeze her harder. “Trust me, I don’t hate you saying that.”
She huffs a laugh and buries her face deeper into my chest. I feel her grin against my shirt. We’re quiet for several long moments, digesting the massive amount of confessions that have been uttered tonight.
It’s a lot. It should be enough to make the average person call, “I’m out. Have a nice life.” But we’re both still here, clinging to the other.
After a long moment, Willow takes in a shaky breath. “Lucky, I don’t want to leave tonight.”
My chest caves.
She leans back just enough to meet my eyes. “Can I stay? Just to sleep? I don’t… I don’t think I’m ready to let you go tonight.”
Something hot and painful surges up behind my eyes. I’ve lived in this penthouse for years—filled it with luxury and shadows—but it’s always been empty. Always just me.
And now Willow Vale, with her darkness and her jagged edges and her bloodstained past and present, is asking to stay. Not for sex. Not for safety. Just to be here. With me.
I nod, swallowing hard. My voice cracks anyway. “Please. Stay.”
We’re both exhausted. It’s been a hell of a day.
The kind that feels like it’s been an entire damn week.
And maybe I’m just ridiculous, but I can’t stand the thought of letting her go, even for a few moments.
So, overly dramatic and completely addicted, I stand with Willow in my arms. She wraps her arms around my neck, her legs cobra wrapping my hips.
And fuck, if this isn’t the best thing in the whole damn world.
My arms are wrapped around her tightly, and somehow, it feels like she was carved to fit right here.
I hit the lights and walk into the bedroom.
I hate it, but I have to let Willow go as I find her something to sleep in—a t-shirt that drowns her.
She steps into the bathroom to pull it on, and then crawls into the bed.
I change into some sweatpants and a black t-shirt, and climb in on the other side of the bed.
It feels holy, having another source of heat in this bed, for the very first time. It feels like a sacrament when Willow doesn’t even hesitate as she curls up into my side, resting her head on my chest. She’s warm. Solid. Real. And she clings to me like I’m the first anchor she’s found in a decade.
My arms lock around her like I can keep the world away if I just hold tight enough.
But she isn’t the only one relaxing for what feels like the first time in forever. My eyes slide closed, and I nearly fucking lose it. Because for the first time in my life, I’m not alone. For the first time in my life, someone has been shown every part of me, and she’s still here.