11. Esmerelda
ESMERELDA
No one has ever made me feel this safe.
It's a strange thing to think, given everything that's happened over the past twelve days.
The attack. The death. The moment I watched Stellan tear through men like they were made of paper, blood and violence and the raw, terrifying power of the berserker unleashed.
By all logic, I should be afraid of him.
By all reason, I should be putting distance between myself and the man who killed six people in front of me without even remembering how.
Instead, I feel safer than I've ever felt in my life.
He's been watching over me for days now.
Constant, devoted, present in a way that should feel suffocating but somehow doesn't. He sits near me when I sleep, is there when I wake, appears at my side whenever I move through the compound like he's magnetized to my presence.
He growls at brothers who get too close and softens when I touch his arm and looks at me with those dark eyes like I'm something precious he's afraid to break.
I've seen Camille tease him about it, watched Eliza hide her knowing smiles behind cookies, caught Kira watching the two of us with an expression that's equal parts worry and hope.
Everyone can see what's happening between us.
Everyone except Stellan, who's still convinced he's too dangerous to deserve this.
But he won't touch me.
Not once, in four days of constant proximity, has Stellan initiated physical contact.
He lets me reach for him, lets me put my hand on his arm or his chest, lets me lean against him when the grief gets too heavy and I need something solid to anchor myself to.
But he never reaches back. Never closes the distance himself.
Never lets himself have what we both know he wants.
I've watched him count his heartbeats when I get too close.
I've seen his hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort of keeping them there.
I've heard the soft intake of breath when I touch him, felt his whole body go still like he's bracing for impact, like my kindness is something he has to survive rather than accept.
It's breaking my heart, watching him deny himself. Watching him hold back from the one thing that might help him heal.
Tonight, I'm going to change that.
Ifind him at sunset, standing at the edge of the compound where the construction crews have been working to repair the damaged walls.
The light paints everything in shades of gold and orange, softening the destruction, making the desert look almost peaceful.
He's silhouetted against the sky, this massive, scarred man who carries so much violence and so much gentleness in the same body, and when he hears me approaching, he turns.
The guarded hope in his eyes nearly undoes me.
It's always there, that hope. Buried beneath the wariness and the fear and the fifteen years of convincing himself he doesn't deserve connection.
But I've learned to see it now, to recognize the way his whole body shifts toward me even as he tries to maintain distance.
He wants this. He wants me. He's just terrified of what that wanting might cost.
"Esmerelda." My name in his low rumble of a voice. Careful. Reverent.
"Stellan."
I walk toward him slowly, giving him time to prepare, to brace himself the way he always does.
But I don't stop at arm's length like I usually do.
I don't settle for the careful distance that he maintains between us.
Instead, I walk right up to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his massive frame, close enough to see the way his pulse jumps in his scarred throat.
I put my hand on his chest.
His heart pounds against my palm, rapid and strong, and I feel him stop breathing.
Every muscle in his body goes taut, locked down, controlled with the kind of iron discipline that must be exhausting to maintain.
His hands are at his sides, fingers curled into fists, and I can see the fine tremor running through them.
"You can touch me," I say.
"I can't." The words come out strangled.
"You're not going to hurt me."
"My strength." He closes his eyes, and there's pain in his expression, old and deep and carved into him by years of fear. "If I lost control, even for a second, I could break you without meaning to. I could?—"
"You came back from berserker rage because I touched you." I hold his gaze when he opens his eyes, letting him see that I mean every word. "I reached for you when you were covered in blood and lost in violence, and you came back. The beast recognized me, Stellan. It stopped for me."
"That doesn't mean?—"
"It means exactly what I said. You're not going to hurt me." I press my palm more firmly against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my touch. "I'm safe with you. I've never been safer with anyone."
He stares at me like I've said something impossible.
Like my faith in him is a language he doesn't speak, a truth he can't quite parse.
His jaw works, fighting words that won't come, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes.
The part of him that wants to reach for me battling against the part that's convinced he'll destroy everything he touches.
"Little one." The endearment slips out, rough and aching. "You should run from me."
"I don't want to run."
"I've wanted to touch you for months." His voice breaks on the confession, cracking open to reveal something raw and vulnerable beneath.
"Before the lockdown, before any of this.
Since the first time you came to the clubhouse and smiled at me like I was just a person.
I've thought about it constantly, dreamed about it. And it terrifies me."
"Then be terrified." I take his clenched fist in my free hand, gently prying his fingers open, placing his palm against my cheek. His hand is massive, rough with calluses, warm against my skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
He makes a sound that's half sob, half growl, and for a moment I think he's going to pull away.
But then his fingers curl, cupping my face with a gentleness that seems impossible from hands so large and strong.
His thumb traces my cheekbone, featherlight, reverent, like he's touching something sacred.
"I could shatter you," he whispers.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." I turn my face into his palm, pressing a kiss to the center of it.
"I've watched you for months too, Stellan.
I've seen how carefully you move, how gently you speak, how hard you work to make sure no one is ever afraid of you.
You count your heartbeats to stay in control.
You stand apart so you don't accidentally hurt anyone.
You've built your whole life around protecting people from yourself. "
His breath shudders out. His other hand comes up, slowly, trembling, to cup the other side of my face. Now I'm held in his massive palms, cradled like something precious, and his dark eyes are swimming with emotion I can't name.
"But I'm not afraid of you," I continue, my voice soft. "I see the monster you think you are, and I see the man underneath, and I'm not running. I'm standing right here, asking you to stop being afraid too. Just for tonight. Just for this moment. Touch me like you want to. I promise I won't break."
The sound he makes is wounded, raw, something breaking open inside him that's been locked away for far too long.
His forehead drops to mine, his breath warm against my lips, and I feel the exact moment when he stops fighting.
The tension drains out of his massive shoulders, the iron control finally releasing, and for the first time since I've known him, he's just a man standing in front of a woman who wants him.
"Esmerelda." My name like a prayer.
And then he kisses me.
It's gentle. Reverent. Like worship made physical, like every moment of wanting distilled into the soft press of his lips against mine.
His tusks brush my cheeks, smooth and warm, and his hands cradle my face like I'm made of glass, and I feel tears spring to my eyes because no one has ever kissed me like this.
Like I'm worth being careful with. Like I'm worth being afraid for.
He tastes like coffee and something darker, something that's just him, and when I part my lips slightly he makes a sound that rumbles through his whole chest. The beast, I realize. Not growling, not hungry, but content. Pleased. Like this moment is everything it's been waiting for too.
He starts to pull back, probably checking to make sure I'm okay, probably waiting for the fear that he's convinced will come eventually.
But I don't let him retreat. I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, showing him with my body what my words haven't been able to convey.
I want this. I want him. All of him, including the parts he's afraid of.
He makes a sound against my mouth, something between surprise and hunger, and then he's kissing me back with more intensity.
Still careful, still controlled, but less tentative.
His hands slide from my face to my waist, pulling me against him, and I feel the rumble in his chest that might be a growl or might be a purr. The beast, settling. Content.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing hard, his eyes are damp.
"I don't deserve this," he says, and his voice cracks on the words.
"Let me decide what I deserve." I reach up to touch his face, tracing the scars that map his history, the chipped tusks that tell stories I haven't heard yet.
"And I deserve you, Stellan Vargas. The man who watches over me while I sleep.
The man who growls at his brothers for getting too close.
The man who kissed me just now like I was worth being gentle with. "
"You are." His voice is fierce, certain, the most confident I've ever heard him. "You're worth everything."
"Then stop telling me to run." I smile, and I feel his whole body relax against mine, months of tension finally releasing. "Because I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever."
He pulls me close again, wrapping his arms around me, tucking my head under his chin. I fit against him perfectly, my softness against his hardness, my warmth against his steady heat. His heartbeat is slower now, calmer, the racing thunder of before settling into something steady and sure.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits into my hair. "I've never let anyone this close. Not since Mira."
His sister. The one who died, the one whose death on the seventh of March gives him a number to count to. I know pieces of that story, fragments he's shared over coffee and quiet conversation, but not the whole thing. Not yet.
"Then we'll figure it out together," I say. "I'm good at that, you know. Helping people figure things out."
He huffs something that might be a laugh, surprised and rusty from disuse. "I've noticed."
"It's my job."
"It's more than that. It's who you are." He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's wonder in his expression, wonder and warmth and something that might be the beginning of love.
"You reach for people, Esmerelda. Even the ones everyone else has given up on.
Even the ones who've given up on themselves. "
"Especially those ones." I reach up to touch one of his tusks, tracing the chip at the edge. He shivers at the contact, his eyes fluttering closed. "They usually need it the most."
"I need it." The admission is quiet, vulnerable, the kind of truth he's probably never spoken aloud. "I need you. I don't understand why, or how this happened so fast, but I need you in a way I've never needed anyone."
"Good." I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling him lean into it. "Because I need you too. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise."
The sun has set while we've been standing here, the sky deepening from orange to purple to the first hints of stars.
The compound is quieting around us, the sounds of reconstruction fading into evening stillness.
Somewhere inside, our friends are gathering for dinner, probably wondering where we are, probably already guessing.
But I'm not ready to step back into that world yet, to share this fragile, precious moment with anyone else, no matter how well-meaning they might be.
"Stay with me," I murmur against his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Just for a little while longer. Please."
"As long as you want." He pulls me close again, one massive arm wrapping around my waist while the other hand comes up to cradle the back of my head. I feel the press of his lips against my hair, warm and tender. "I'd stay here forever if you asked me to."
"Don't tempt me," I say, though there's no heat in the warning, only longing.
"It's not a temptation, Esmerelda." His voice drops lower, softer, weighted with meaning. "It's a promise."
We stand there in the gathering dark, holding each other, and I let myself believe that this is real.
That this man who's convinced he's a monster is actually the gentlest person I've ever known.
That the beast inside him isn't something to fear but something to understand.
That we can build something beautiful out of all this violence and loss and pain.
He's still afraid. I can feel it in the way he holds me, careful and controlled, always aware of his own strength. But he's not pulling away. He's not running. He's letting me stay, letting me see him, letting me love him even though he's convinced he doesn't deserve it.
That's enough for now. That's everything.
Tomorrow will bring more challenges, more grief, more war. But tonight, in this moment, there's just the two of us and the stars coming out and the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where I'm supposed to be.
In the arms of a man who's been waiting his whole life for someone to reach for him.