Chapter 47 Keira
KEIRA
Isit curled on the couch, a cashmere blanket wrapped around my shoulders, watching as the private doctor tends to Cyrus’s knife wound.
The penthouse feels both familiar and strange, like returning to a dream.
My body isn’t badly hurt—some bruises, a cut on my cheek, nothing that won’t heal—but something inside me feels hollowed out.
“This will need stitches,” the doctor says, pressing a gauze pad against Cyrus’s shoulder. His face doesn’t register pain, but I see his jaw tighten.
Ace stands nearby, his tactical vest removed to reveal the angry purple bruises blooming across his ribs where the bullets struck his body armor. His eyes haven’t left me since we arrived home, as if I might disappear again if he blinks.
I pull the blanket tighter, but it doesn’t stop the chill that seems lodged in my bones.
They touched me. Strangers put their hands on me, moved me, controlled where I went and what I did.
After everything with Henderson, I’d finally reclaimed my body as my own, only to have that sovereignty violated again.
“You’re safe now,” Ace says softly.
I nod, but the words don’t quite reach the frozen place inside me. The doctor finishes with Cyrus and moves to examine Ace’s ribs.
“Two cracked, possibly three,” the doctor mutters, pressing gently along Ace’s side.
Cyrus crosses to me, his bandaged shoulder stiff as he kneels in front of the couch. His eyes search mine, and I see the remnants of fear still lingering there—not for himself, but for me.
“We found you,” he whispers, taking my hand in his. His thumb traces circles on my palm, the gentle movement anchoring me to the present. “We’ll always find you.”
I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. “I knew you would.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “They thought they could use me to control you.”
Ace looks over the doctor’s shoulder at me. “They were right about that.”
The doctor packs his supplies. “Ice those ribs every few hours,” he instructs Ace. “And you,” he points to Cyrus, “don’t get that bandage wet for forty-eight hours.” He gives me a final glance. “The sedative should be completely out of your system by morning. Rest is the best thing now.”
Ace nods and escorts him to the door. The lock clicks behind him, and suddenly the penthouse feels too quiet.
Both brothers turn toward me simultaneously, moving as if pulled by the same invisible thread. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Cyrus sits on my left side, Ace on my right, their bodies creating a fortress around me.
Hands—gentle, reverent—begin to map my body. Cyrus traces fingertips along my bruised jawline while Ace pushes the blanket from my shoulders to examine the marks on my arms. They touch me like archaeologists uncovering something precious and fragile, cataloging each injury with careful attention.
Ace lifts my wrist, examining the raw skin where the restraints cut into me. His thumb strokes the abrasion with a touch so light I barely feel it. Cyrus’s fingers thread through my hair, finding the small bump where my head struck the concrete floor.
I watch their faces—the slight narrowing of Ace’s eyes when he discovers a new bruise, the tight line of Cyrus’s mouth as his fingers hover over the cut on my cheek.
They need this. Need to reassure themselves I’m here, that I’m whole enough to be rebuilt.
“I love you,” I whisper, my voice steadier than before. “Both of you. Thank you for finding me.”
Cyrus presses his forehead against mine, his eyes closing briefly. “Always,” he breathes.
Ace’s hand cups my face, turning me toward him. His gaze holds mine, something fierce and tender warring in its depths. “Always,” he echoes.
“Can we just—” I can’t finish the sentence, but they understand.
Cyrus leads me to the bedroom with Ace following closely behind.
There’s a moment of unspoken communication between them before they begin to undress me with careful, reverent hands.
There’s nothing sexual in their touch, just gentle efficiency as they help me out of clothes that still smell like that concrete room.
I stand before them, skin prickling with goosebumps, feeling stripped in ways that go beyond nakedness.
Ace removes his shirt, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his injured ribs.
Cyrus follows, maneuvering carefully around his bandaged shoulder.
They shed their remaining clothes and guide me to the center of the bed.
We lie together, a tangle of limbs and warm skin. I’m cocooned between their bodies, Cyrus’s chest against my back, Ace facing me, his forehead touching mine. Their arms encircle me, creating a fortress of flesh and bone that nothing can penetrate.
I focus on their breathing, letting mine fall into rhythm with theirs. Inhale, exhale. The simple act grounds me, pulling me back into my body when part of me still feels disconnected, floating somewhere near the ceiling.
“We thought—” Ace starts, his voice rough with emotion.
“Don’t,” I whisper, pressing my palm against his chest where I can feel his heart beating. “I’m here. We’re okay.”
Cyrus’s arm tightens around my waist, his breath warm against the nape of my neck.
I place my other hand over his, feeling the slight tremor in his fingers.
Even hours after the rescue, their hands haven’t stopped shaking—these men who can kill without hesitation, who move through the world with lethal precision, still trembling at the thought of losing me.
I close my eyes and breathe them in—Ace’s cedar and leather scent, Cyrus’s hint of bergamot. Their heartbeats pulse against my skin from two directions, creating a rhythm that tells me I’m home, I’m safe, I’m loved.
I wake in the darkness, momentarily disoriented until I feel the solid warmth of two bodies anchoring me to reality. My breath catches in my throat—a fleeting moment of panic—before I remember: I’m home. I’m safe. I’m with Ace and Cyrus.
In the dim light filtering through the blinds, I study their sleeping faces. Their hands have found each other across my body—Cyrus’s fingers entwined with Ace’s over my stomach. Even in sleep, they maintain this connection, this unbreakable circuit of protection with me at its center.
I close my eyes and let the tears come. Not the desperate, terrified tears I’d suppressed during my captivity, but quiet ones that cleanse rather than drown. The twins stir simultaneously, as if sensing my silent release.
“Baby?” Cyrus’s voice, rough with sleep.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though we all know it’s not entirely true. “I just need to feel this.”
Ace’s thumb brushes away a tear tracking down my temple. “Feel it with us,” he says softly.
Their grip on each other tightens, their linked hands pressing gently against me—a physical reminder that whatever darkness swirls inside me, I don’t have to face it alone.
“When they took me,” I begin, my voice small in the darkness, “I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of never seeing you again.” The admission costs me, bringing fresh tears. “Afraid you’d blame yourselves forever.”
“We would have,” Ace admits quietly.
“We still do,” Cyrus adds, his breath warm against my shoulder.
Their honesty breaks something open inside me. “I love you both so much it terrifies me sometimes.”
“Love is always terrifying,” Ace says, pressing his lips to my forehead.
“But worth it,” Cyrus finishes.
Their joined hands lift from my stomach, and I watch as Cyrus brings Ace’s knuckles to his lips in a gesture so tender it steals my breath. Something fundamental has shifted between them—boundaries redrawn, walls crumbling.
In this moment, tangled together in the aftermath of fear and violence, I feel us becoming something new. Something unbreakable.