Chapter Fifteen
Kade
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She falls asleep fast. Faster than I expected. One moment she’s blinking slow, fighting it, trying to stay awake long enough to say something else, something soft, something that would ruin me. The next, her breathing evens out, her body melts into the mattress, and she’s gone. Completely gone.
I lie beside her, one arm around her waist, her back pressed against my chest. She’s warm. She’s steady. She’s here. I feel every breath she takes, each one loosening something tight in my ribs. I should sleep. I should close my eyes and let the exhaustion drag me under too.
But I don’t.
I watch her.
Her hair spills across the pillow, strands brushing her cheek.
Her lips part slightly as she breathes. Her fingers curl into the blanket like she’s holding onto something even in sleep.
She looks peaceful. She looks untouched.
She looks like she hasn’t lived through the kind of nightmare that would break most people.
Because she doesn’t remember.
Because I made sure she wouldn’t.
I swallow hard, my chest tightening. The truth sits heavy in my throat, a weight I can’t spit out, a shadow I can’t let touch her.
She doesn’t know what happened. She doesn’t know what she saw.
She doesn’t know what her mother did. She doesn’t know how close she came to being taken again.
She doesn’t know how I found her, how I held her, how she shook in my arms before her mind shut down to protect itself.
She doesn’t know any of it.
And she won’t.
I brush my thumb along her hip, slow, gentle, careful not to wake her. She shifts slightly, leaning back into me, her body instinctively seeking mine even in sleep. It destroys me. It heals me. It terrifies me.
She trusts me. Completely. Blindly. Dangerously.
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing her in.
The truth claws at me, begging to be spoken, begging to be confessed, begging to be dragged into the light.
But I can’t. I won’t. If she knew, she’d break.
If she knew, she’d relive it. If she knew, she’d never sleep like this again, soft and safe and warm in my arms.
So I carry it. All of it. Every detail. Every scream. Every shadow.
I bury it so deep it can’t reach her.
She murmurs something in her sleep, too quiet to understand, but her hand reaches back, fingers brushing my arm like she’s checking I’m still there. I tighten my hold around her waist, pulling her closer, letting her feel the promise in the way I hold her.
I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’m not letting anything touch you again.
She breathes out, soft and steady, and I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling, letting the truth sit heavy in my chest.
I will protect her from the world. I will protect her from the past. I will protect her from the truth itself.
Even if it kills me.
I don’t realize when sleep claims me. One moment I’m brushing my fingers along her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin under my touch, the next I’m dragged awake by the sound of her sobbing.
Not confused sobbing.
Not dream sobbing.
Remembering sobbing.
Her body jerks violently beside me, legs kicking at the sheets, hands clawing at the air like she’s fighting someone who isn’t here. Her voice tears out of her throat, a scream that sounds too familiar, too real, too close to the night everything went wrong.
“Mara,” I whisper, already pulling her into my arms. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
She doesn’t wake. She remembers.
Her cries aren’t blind panic. They’re shaped. They’re directed. They’re echoes of the hands that grabbed her, the room she was dragged into, the fear that carved itself into her bones. She’s reliving it, every second, every breath, every shadow.
I hold her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her waist, keeping her anchored to me. “You’re safe,” I murmur, voice steady even as my chest twists. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She fights harder.
Her fingers dig into my shirt, nails scraping my skin through the fabric. She’s shaking so badly I can barely keep her still. Her breath comes in broken gasps, the kind that only happen when memory is ripping someone apart from the inside.
Then her eyes shoot open.
She looks at me like she doesn’t know where she is, like she’s still trapped in that room, like she’s still being held down. Panic carves itself across her face, raw and sharp, her chest heaving as she tries to pull away.
“Mara,” I whisper, tightening my hold. “Look at me.”
She does. Barely. Her eyes flicker, wild, terrified.
Then she smells me.
I watch the exact moment recognition hits her. Her muscles loosen. Her breathing slows. Her eyes soften. Her hands stop shaking.
My scent washes over her, grounding her, pulling her out of the memory and back into the present. She clings to me, fingers curling into my shirt, not out of fear now but out of relief. Out of need.
She remembers. All of it. And she’s still reaching for me.
I brush my thumb along her cheek, wiping away the tears she hasn’t realized she shed. “You’re safe,” I whisper. “You’re here. No one is going to hurt you. Not while I’m breathing.”
Her breath catches, her forehead pressing into my chest as she tries to steady herself. She’s trembling, but she’s here. She’s awake. She’s with me.
She remembers. And she still chose me.
I hold her until her breathing evens out, until her fingers loosen, until the panic fades into exhaustion. She stays pressed against me, small and shaking, but present.
“I remember.”
Her voice is barely there, a fragile whisper pressed against my chest, but it hits me harder than any blow I’ve ever taken. My entire body goes still. A cold dread crawls up my spine, slow and merciless. She remembers. She remembers everything. And I don’t know if she’ll ever be the same again.
Her breath trembles against my skin. I tighten my hold around her, trying to steady her, trying to steady myself. She remembers. The room. The hands. The terror. The betrayal. The moment she broke. The moment I found her.
I open my mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but my phone lights up on the nightstand.
A single text.
From the number I’ve been waiting for, dreading, hunting.
I reach for it slowly, careful not to jostle her. The screen glows in the dark.
Unknown: We know, and we’re coming for her.You can’t save her this time.She’s coming home, where she belongs.
My blood turns to ice.
Home.
Where she belongs.
The words twist like a knife.
I stare at the message, my pulse pounding in my ears. They know she remembers. They know she’s awake. They know she’s mine. And they think they can take her back. They think they can drag her into that nightmare again. They think they can undo everything I’ve done to keep her safe.
She shifts in my arms, still trembling, still fragile, still trying to breathe through the memory that shattered her. I pull her closer, burying her against me, shielding her from a threat she doesn’t know is already at our door.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper into her hair, voice steady even as my chest tightens. “I’m not letting anyone take you.”
She doesn’t speak. She just clings to me, fingers curling into my shirt, her breath warm against my throat. She remembers. And she’s terrified. And she’s here. And she’s mine.
I look at the message again.
They’re coming.
Let them.
I tighten my hold around her, my jaw set, my pulse steadying into something cold and lethal.
They think they know what I’ll do.They think they know how far I’ll go.They think they know what she means to me.
They don’t.
I press a kiss to her forehead, slow and deliberate, my eyes never leaving the glowing screen.
If they want her back, they’ll have to go through me.
And I will burn their entire world before I let them touch her again.