Chapter 3
Storm
Any other man would have an issue leaving a dead body with his friends to take care of a woman. Me? I’d rather be here with her than cleaning up a corpse.
Even if Phoenix hasn't said a word in over ten minutes.
She sits silent on the couch, staring into nothing. It's like she's not even here. Physically, yes. Mentally, she's gone somewhere else—somewhere I can't reach.
I have to try anyway. “Angel?”
Her gaze slides past me without acknowledging my presence.
An unsettling knot tightens in my gut. Her breathing remains even, if shallow, and my chest pulls tight in answer. I can’t help feeling like it's my job to pull her back to the land of the living.
Maybe it’s because she brought me back earlier.
I don't have a plan, so I sit beside her and tug her into my arms. Maybe this is enough. Maybe I just have to be here for her, the way I only ever wanted someone to be there for me. I’ll just hold steady, be warm…and I won’t be the first to let go.
I run a finger through a strand of her hair, pushing it behind her ear. She’s such a tough little badass.
She flinches a little, turning her cheek so that it’s harder for me to make that physical contact.
She’s so tough, but damaged too. Her response doesn’t completely surprise me. What she saw…what she’s been through tonight…it’s a lot. It’s not just the body on the dining room table, although that alone would be enough to send anyone into shock. She was also attacked hours ago.
And then she watched me—watched all of us—kill for her.
Afterward, as if that wasn't enough, she stood by as we chummed the ocean with their blood and bones like it was any other day on the ocean.
I didn't want her to see that, but she refused to let anything happen without her present.
Just like she insisted on being part of whatever we did to solve this, too. Instead, Conrad shut the door in her face.
She hasn't spoken since.
I know she's upset and she has every right to be. I can handle screaming, crying, throwing things, blaming me—blame would be easy. I'd welcome that.
But silence? I don't know what to do with silence.
Silence from Phoenix is like sitting in the eye of a hurricane. The storm is raging around us, ready to suck us in and wreak havoc.
She's never been quiet a moment in her life, always quick to overexplain, especially when she's nervous. She borders on babbling. Her words fill space the way other people pace the floor.
I have the uncomfortable sense that she’s slipping away in the silence she’s wrapping around herself.
“Phoenix…”
She's stiff in my arms, her long, toned legs tossed over my lap, fists balled at her sides. Her jaw is tight, like she's holding herself together by sheer determination at this point. Her warm honey hair is a mess, windswept from the yacht, and a hint of sunburn tops her cheeks and breasts.
That’s the only color in her skin, though. Beneath the burn, she’s pale. Hollowed out.
Voices rise and fall, snapping at each other beyond the door, but she doesn't flinch. We can't hear the specifics, but the anger, the hostility, the panic carry through the wood.
Phoenix doesn't move. Not even when Atticus yells beyond the door. Atticus never raises his voice—he sees it as a loss of control, a weakness, instead of the strength he wears like a shield. If he's shouting, we're well and truly fucked.
I know that Phoenix knows that, too. Still, she doesn't react.
"Are you remembering to breathe?" I ask.
Nothing.
"Let’s go." I move her legs off mine and stand, offering my hand. She doesn't take it, so I take her wrist. She doesn't flinch away, at least—I take it as a win. I pull her to her feet, guide her up, then lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.
She just exists in my arms, like she's not sure she wants to anymore. She’s deadweight from the neck down with a thousand-yard stare from the neck up. I miss the feeling of her leaning into my embrace and welcoming my touch, but I don’t think she’s capable of that right now.
"We're going to take a shower," I say.
She doesn't respond. She stares past my shoulder as I carry her into my room, straight to the en suite, further away from the dining room and what's lying on that table.
I don't stop until we're inside and the door's locked. No other Titans. No plans. No shouting. All of that stays on the other side. In here, it's just her, me, and the gaping hole in my chest I can't fix.
Inside, I set her on the marble sink counter and take her face in my palms. Her gaze flicks to mine warily, then past me, until she finally lands her sight on the floor.
"Angel," I say.
No answer.
"Angel, I know you can hear me. It's okay. I don't know how yet, but we'll make this better. There isn't a single thing in this world I won't do to protect you. To keep you." I press my forehead to hers and hold her tighter.
She keeps staring at the tile, but after a moment she blinks. Just once.
It’s enough. It has to be. Because the alternative is that I’m losing her even now.
Phoenix hasn't spoken. She hasn't cried. She hasn't done anything.
This brilliant, vibrant woman—who's owned my soul since she was a teenager brave enough to slap a senator—is shattering in my care. The spark that always smiles for me and argues with Con and sasses Mav is out, and everything is a little dimmer for it.
It wasn't the neglect from her father, or the way we came for her when she broke Conrad's heart, or even the violence from those men that terrorized her. None of that broke her.
We did this.
I can't see it any other way. She agreed to be ours, to be kept by us—all of us—and then she breaks. We didn't say the words, but the promise to protect her lived in our chests, and we failed.
We don't deserve her. I don't deserve her. I should walk away—but she doesn't deserve that either. Maybe it kills us both, but I refuse to be another person who abandons her.
"Let's get you clean, Angel," I whisper against her temple. Turning my head slightly, I drop a kiss to her forehead.
I set her on her feet long enough to turn on the shower. I considered a bath before I brought her in here, but no. She needs to watch the sweat, the tears, the night and the torment of all of it wash down the drain. She needs visible proof that what touched her skin doesn't get to stay.
I need to kill every person responsible for this. I need to watch the life fade from their eyes as their blood runs dry. I need these things like I need to pull air into my lungs.
Later, though.
My vengeance comes later.
Angel comes first.
When the water is hot—just shy of scalding, the way she likes—I return to her and rest my palm on her shoulder. Her skin is cool and clammy.
"Angel, do you want to undress yourself, or do you want me to do it for you?" I ask, ignoring the voice in my head telling me to fetch one of the others, that I'm not good enough for this.
I'm the one holding her. That's enough.
She doesn't blink.
She was there for me when I couldn't breathe. She climbed the walls I built for protection, even as they became my prison. I won't let her go through the war I see her waging with herself alone. My brothers might love her, even if they haven’t figured that out yet. But I understand her.
I tug gently at the hem of her shirt. "Let's take this off, Angel."
Slowly, I peel her clothes away one piece at a time—shirt, bra, shoes, socks, shorts, underwear. I don't throw them in the hamper. They'll need to be burned with the rest of the evidence from tonight.
I keep my hands steady and my eyes up…I count buttons instead of lingering over curves and flesh. This isn't sexual. She needs to be taken care of, not owned. Not now.
It feels like stripping away the last several hours, looking for the girl who tried to sneak out to face her demons before they found us.
I'm looking for my brave savior—the only woman who has never been afraid of me, the only one able to see past the knives and blank-faced exterior.
Salt clings to her skin from the ocean. Sweat. And God knows what else from the boat. That rinse on the yacht wasn't enough then, and it sure as hell isn't enough now.
I lift her and carry her into the steam-thick shower, careful not to let the spray hit her until I've tested it again. I set her against the tile. Her body leans into the wall but doesn't slide.
I strip, add my clothes to the pile, and step back in with the handheld shower head. I take her hand and run warm water over the back of it, watching her face. No flinch—but her fingers loosen.
That will have to do.
I keep her standing while I drop to my knees letting the water soothe everywhere. Every inch—her perfect face, the line of her throat, down to the soft spaces between her toes. I wash away the sin, and the stress.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to.
When the last of the suds rinse away, I pull her under the overhead rainfall. For long moments, I just hold her under the hot water, letting it warm us both. My head rests on the curve of her shoulder. Her pulse thuds steady under my mouth. Alive.
Broken, but breathing.
Air in. Held. Air out. I match her cadence until our breaths sync, settle.
As long as she's breathing, I can fix this.
I can find a way to keep her.
When her shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing, I take my first full breath. I grab the shampoo I bought her and avert my eyes to the black-and-tan ombré bottle.
The salon girls swore it was the best and Phoenix deserves the best, even if she has only ever gotten scraps up until now.
I squeeze it into my palm, the warm citrusy scent filling the steam, and then work it through her hair. It takes only a moment for her to soften against me. Maybe it's the shampoo. Maybe it's my thumbs drawing slow circles on her scalp. I don't care.
For the first time, she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then another. She leans her weight into me the way I crave.
I chance a look and see her eyes slip shut while her chin tips up.