Chapter Fourteen
Eddy woke to sunlight and the sound of soft breathing.
Penny was still asleep, curled on her side facing him, one hand tucked under her cheek like a child. Waffle had somehow migrated from the floor to the bed during the night, wedged against the backs of her knees, his one eye closed in contentment.
Eddy didn't move.
He lay there watching her sleep, cataloging details he hadn't had time to notice before.
The scatter of freckles across her nose.
The way her lips parted slightly when she breathed.
The small scar on her chin—he'd have to ask about that sometime.
The absolute peace in her expression, so different from the fierce woman who'd stood in the kennel doorway with a fire extinguisher raised to kill.
She was beautiful.
Not in the polished, careful way of women who worked at it. Beautiful in the way of someone who'd stopped caring what other people thought and just became herself. Wild hair and bitten nails and laugh lines around eyes that had seen too much chaos too young.
His woman.
The thought settled in his chest like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spreading outward, changing everything they touched.
He'd killed for her. Would kill again. Would burn down anyone who threatened her and sleep fine afterward.
That should probably worry him more than it did.
River lifted his head from the foot of the bed, ears pricked, and Eddy realized Penny's breathing had changed. She was awake, watching him through half-closed lids.
"You're staring," she murmured.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because I can."
A smile curved her lips. She stretched, cat-like, dislodging Waffle, who grumbled and resettled at the foot of the bed next to River. The two dogs eyed each other with mutual tolerance.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Early. Sun's barely up."
"Hmm." She reached out and traced a finger down his chest, following the line of a scar that ran from collarbone to ribs. "Where'd you get this one?"
"Bar fight. Six years ago." He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Guy had a broken bottle. I had better reflexes."
"And this?" Her finger moved to another scar, smaller, on his shoulder.
"Bullet graze. First year with the club."
"Jesus, Eddy."
"Occupational hazard."
She propped herself up on one elbow, studying him with an intensity that made something in his chest tighten. "How many times have you almost died?"
He considered lying. Considered deflecting with humor or distraction.
Instead, he told her the truth.
"Three times that were close. Twice with the club—situations that went sideways, brothers who pulled me out." He paused. "Once before."
"Before the club?"
"Before everything."
She waited. Patient. The same way he'd waited for her on the porch, offering silence instead of pressure.
"I told you I used to work on the river," he said slowly. "Teaching kayaking. Whitewater tours."
"You mentioned it."
"There was a woman. Tourist, early thirties, took my intermediate class even though she'd never been on anything rougher than a swimming pool.
" He stared at the ceiling, watching dust motes drift in the morning light.
"I should have failed her out. Should have told her she wasn't ready.
But she was determined, and I was young and stupid, and I thought I could keep everyone safe. "
Penny's hand found his, fingers intertwining.
"We hit a hydraulic. Recirculating current—water flows over a drop, creates a backwash that traps anything that falls into it. She flipped, went under, and the hydraulic grabbed her."
His voice came out flat. Detached. The only way he could tell this story without drowning in it himself.
"I dove in after her. Got a hand on her life jacket, tried to pull her out. But the water didn't want to let go." His jaw tightened. "Two minutes. She was under for two minutes while I fought the current. Felt like two hours."
"But you got her out."
"Barely. She wasn't breathing when I finally pulled her to the surface. Had to do CPR on the riverbank while my other clients watched." He closed his eyes. "She lived. No brain damage, no permanent injury. She even sent me a thank-you card a few months later."
"Then why do you sound like you failed?"
The question hit something raw.
"Because I panicked." The word came out like broken glass. "The whole time she was under, I wasn't thinking clearly. Wasn't reading the water like I should have. Just grabbing and pulling and fighting without any of the calm I'd trained for."
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
"She lived because I got lucky. Because the hydraulic decided to let her go. Not because I stayed calm. Not because I made the right choices." His voice dropped. "The one time it really mattered, I fell apart."
Penny was quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traced circles on the back of his hand, slow and steady.
"Is that why you left the river?"
"I couldn't trust myself anymore. Every time I got near whitewater, I felt it—the panic waiting to come back.
So I walked away." He shrugged, a small, tight movement.
"Came home to the Ozarks. Found the club.
Found a place where my kind of calm was useful and nobody asked about the shit underneath. "
"The surface never breaks," she said softly.
"Can't let it. Because I know what happens when it does. People get hurt. People almost die."
"But the surface broke last night."
He looked at her sharply.
"With me," she continued. "In this bed. You let it break."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
He didn't have an answer. She'd seen him at his rawest—not just the violence, but the vulnerability underneath. The part of him that still felt those two minutes like they'd happened yesterday.
And she hadn't run.
"You keep the surface calm," she said, shifting closer, "because the one time you panicked, someone almost died. But she didn't die. You saved her. You did the impossible thing and pulled her out of water that wanted to keep her."
"I got lucky."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're stronger than you think." She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Either way, I'm glad you panic sometimes. Means you're human."
He caught her face in his hands, tilted it up so he could see her eyes. "You're too goddamn understanding, you know that?"
"Says the man who held my hand on the porch while I cried about my mother."
Something shifted between them. He could feel it—an opening, an invitation.
"Tell me about her," he said. "Your mother. The real story."
Penny's expression flickered. She pulled back slightly, not retreating, just... gathering herself.
"The real story." She laughed, a small, bitter sound. "Which part? The boyfriends? The chaos? The twenty-nine years of cleaning up disasters I didn't create?"
"All of it. Whatever you want to share."
She was quiet for a long moment. He waited, the same way she'd waited for him.
"My father left before I was born," she said finally. "So it was always just me and my mom. For a while, that was okay. We didn't have much, but we had each other."
"When did it change?"
"When I was seven. That's when the first boyfriend showed up." Her jaw tightened. "Mike. He was charming at first. They always are. But after a few months, the charm wore off and the anger came out."
"Did he hurt you?"
"Not physically. Not me." She met his eyes. "But I learned fast that when Mike was angry, I needed to be invisible. When Mike was drinking, I needed to make sure nothing set him off. When Mike left—finally, after eighteen months—I was the one who cleaned up the mess."
Eddy's hands curled into fists at his sides. "How many after him?"
"I lost count. Ten? Twelve? They all blurred together after a while. Different faces, same patterns. Mom would meet someone, fall hard, ignore every red flag I could see from a mile away. Things would be good for a few months. Then they wouldn't be."
"And you cleaned up every time."
"Someone had to." She sat up, pulling the sheet around her shoulders, suddenly seeming smaller than she had a moment ago.
"By the time I was fifteen, I was paying the bills because Mom forgot.
By seventeen, I was the one calling the landlord, talking to the school, keeping the fridge stocked.
By twenty, I'd put myself through cosmetology school and started saving for my own business. "
"You built everything yourself."
"I didn't have a choice." Her voice hardened. "Mom couldn't do it. She kept falling for men who took and took and took, and every time one left, she fell apart. I couldn't fall apart too. Someone had to hold things together."
"So you smiled."
She looked at him sharply.
"The cheerful thing," he said quietly. "The warmth. It's real, but it's also armor. You learned to smile through the chaos because that's how you survived."
Her eyes glistened. She looked away, blinking fast.
"There was one time," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was nineteen. Mom's boyfriend of the month—Gary, I think his name was—he pawned my grandmother's ring. The only thing I had from her. The only thing that felt like family."
"What happened?"
"I lost it. Completely. Screamed at him, screamed at Mom, said things I'd been holding back for years." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Gary left that night. Cleaned out Mom's bank account on his way out the door."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Mom didn't see it that way." Her laugh was wet, broken. "She fell apart. Couldn't get out of bed for two weeks. Lost her job. Almost lost the apartment. And the whole time, she kept saying it was because I'd made a scene. Because I couldn't just keep the peace."
Eddy sat up and pulled her against him. She went stiff for a moment, then melted into his chest, her breath shaky against his skin.
"I learned my lesson," she said quietly. "Don't lose it. Don't stop smiling. Because the one time I stopped—the one time I let myself feel what I was actually feeling—my mother fell apart."
He held her tighter.
"That's why you manage everything," he said into her hair. "Why you organize and schedule and keep smiling no matter what. Because you learned that if you stop, everything collapses."
"Someone has to hold things together."
"Not anymore." He pulled back, tilted her face up to meet his eyes. "Not alone. Not with me."
She stared at him, tears tracking down her cheeks. "Eddy—"
"I let the surface break for you," he said. "You can let the smile break for me. We hold each other's pieces. That's how this works."
Something in her expression crumbled. The careful composure she'd maintained through everything—the dead dog, the threats, the battles, the chaos—finally cracked, and she let him see what was underneath.
Not weakness. Never weakness.
Just exhaustion. Just the weight of twenty-nine years of holding everything together.
"I'm so tired," she whispered.
"I know." He kissed her forehead, her temple, the tears on her cheeks. "I've got you. Just rest."
She curled into him, face pressed against his neck, body shaking with the sobs she'd held back for years. He wrapped himself around her and held on.
At the foot of the bed, River and Waffle settled together, a mismatched pair of guardians watching over their humans.
The morning light grew stronger. The compound stirred to life outside.
But in this cabin, time stopped.
And Eddy held the woman who'd looked at his darkest currents and stayed anyway, while she finally let herself fall apart in the arms of someone who would catch her.