Chapter Thirteen Sunny
My phone slips from my fingers.
Til death do us part.
The words burn into me like ink that won’t wash away.
My throat closes. My pulse races. The room spins—Las Vegas neon bleeding through the window like the world is on fire.
Dylan takes the phone from my hand, jaw steel, eyes night-black. He reads the text once. Then again. Every muscle in him changes. Hardens.
“Did he ever say that to you before?” he asks quietly—too calmly.
My voice barely escapes. “Yes.”
That’s all he needs.
His phone is already to his ear. “Double security on every exit. If I find him—”
I reach out, grabbing his sleeve before the rest of the sentence can stab air.
“Don’t,” I breathe. “Please. I don’t want… death. Not for anyone. I just want him gone.”
His eyes land on mine—feral and human all at once. “He should fear consequences.”
“I already lived afraid,” I say. “I want something different now.”
Something soft. Something safe. Something that doesn’t come with violence in its shadow.
He exhales slowly, like he’s forcing rage out one controlled inch at a time. Then he hangs up.
“We’re together,” he says. “And that means this isn’t his ending to write.”
My chest tightens. Together. The word hits deeper than any vow tonight.
When he turns toward the bed again, that word lingers in my blood.
Together.
He starts to shrug off his jacket like stepping into war mode exhausted him. His shirt clings to his shoulders, muscles flexing, and something hot coils low in my stomach.
“This doesn’t have to change anything,” he murmurs. “We can keep distance tonight.”
Distance.
I thought I wanted it. But when I look at the oversized white sheets—soft, untouched, still ghosted with the idea of what a wedding night could be—
I don’t want that distance at all.
My voice is quiet but steady. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”
He freezes.
I don’t think he expected me to take up space, to ask, to claim anything for myself.
Slowly, I step closer—just close enough that I can smell clean soap and storm-sharp cologne.
“I’m tired of being afraid,” I whisper. “I want to feel something that isn’t fear.”
His breath catches. I hear it. Feel it.
He reaches up—hesitant—then touches a strand of my hair, letting it slip through his fingers like silk he’s scared might vanish.
“You’re asking for danger,” he says.
“No.” I lift my chin. “I’m asking for you.”
Something breaks in him.
He cups my face—gentle, reverent, nothing like the man the world thinks he is—and then he kisses me.
It’s different from the first time. Not collision. Not surrender. But discovery.
Slow. Dangerous. Unavoidable.
His mouth moves against mine like he’s memorizing pieces he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.
My hands slide to his chest, feeling heat and heartbeat and hunger.
His body answers.
Mine does too.
When he lifts me—effortless—my gasp becomes part of the kiss. He lays me back on the bed, his forehead resting against mine like he’s asking permission even as our breaths tangle.
“Sunny…” He sounds wrecked. “Tell me to stop.”
My fingers twist into his shirt. “Don’t.”
His control crumbles.
His hands skated down my sides, tracing curves with unapologetic ownership while his mouth found the pulse beneath my ear.
The entire room narrowed to the spot where his lips pressed skin, to the press of his palm against my waist, to the friction of fabric that somehow felt both too much and nowhere near enough.
The bedroom vanished, replaced by the small, bright universe we generated together.
And then—he pulled back. Not far. Just enough for gravity to realign around our separate bodies.
His forehead still touched mine; his chest rose and fell in sharp, almost painful breaths that grazed my lips.
And then—
He pulls away.
Not like last time—running. But like he’s choosing to stay even while stepping back.
His forehead rests against mine. His chest rises and falls—shaky.
“If we cross the line all the way,” he says, voice gravel, “there’s no version of my life where I let you go.”
My breath stops.
Because I want that. I want the terrifying permanence of it. I want him.
“I’m not afraid of forever,” I whisper.
He swallows. Hard. “Then I am.”
The honesty slices deep.
I open my mouth to speak—but the universe hates timing.
A fist pounds on the suite door.
Loud. Aggressive. Impossible.
“Dylan!” a voice shouts.
Male. Sharp. Familiar.
My blood goes cold.
Dylan stands, body going rigid. He strides across the room and yanks the door open.
Ethan stands there. My brother. My protector. My threat.
His eyes take in the bed—my flushed face—Dylan's unbuttoned shirt.
And hell cracks open.