“Always,” I promise, my hand cupping her cheek. “We will always come for you.”
Ace leans in, his forehead pressing against her temple. “Nothing could have stopped us. Nothing.”
My lips find hers in a kiss that starts gentle but carries every ounce of terror and relief I’ve experienced in the past twelve hours. When I pull back, Ace takes my place, his mouth covering hers with the same desperate tenderness.
We cradle her between us, taking turns kissing her, each touch an affirmation that she’s here, she’s alive, she’s ours. Not the frantic claiming of before, but something deeper—reverent, almost. A communion of sorts, mapping her face with our lips, relearning the curves of her jaw, the softness of her mouth.
47
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 somethingprecious 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.
