Hell, the sound?—
A broken sob tears out of me.
"I told him I loved him," I whisper, the words scraping out of my throat like glass. "Right before—" At least I have that. Even though I can't finish the words. At least he died… with a lie from my lips. Not a complete lie. I did love him. I had just… outgrown him. As cruel as that sounds. Was that selfish of me?
"I was going to…" I can't finish it. I don't need to. My body says it for me. Shaking. Breaking. He tightens his hold on me. Just slightly. Just enough. A silent answer:I know.Time doesn't exist in the elevator. It could be seconds. Minutes. I don't know. All I know is that I'm falling apart in the arms of a man I barely know, and he doesn't let me go. Not once. Not even when my sobs turn into broken, gasping breaths. He just holds me. His embrace is solid, steady, unmoving. Like he can carry all of itwithout it touching him. Like this is nothing to him. That should scare me. It should.
But right now, it doesn't. Right now, it feels like the only thing keeping me from completely shattering is him. I barely register that we're moving again, through a hallway, into his penthouse, through another hallway, and into the bedroom I picked last night. Was it just last night?
He sits us down on the bed, still holding me in his arms, and lets me cry without a word. Just letting me feel his unyielding presence, wrapping me in absolute safety.
Eventually, all sobs must ease, and mine do. They're not gone. They just turn quieter. My body still trembles, but the worst of it passes, leaving me hollow. Drained. Empty in a way that feels almost peaceful. Slowly, I realize that I'm clinging to him. My hands are still fisted in his shirt. My face is pressed into his chest. His now very wet chest. My body leans into him with my entire weight. Heat floods my face. Quickly, I pull back.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, wiping at my face, avoiding his eyes. "I didn't—I don't know—" What? What do I even say?
Sorry for falling apart on you?
Sorry for using you like?—
I cut the thought off. Hard. Because I don't want to finish it. Don't want to understand it.
"It's been a long night," his voice is quiet.
That's it. No judgment. No pity. Just… a fact. I nod, even though he can't see it. Because that's easier. Because if I look at him—if I let myself think about what just happened—about how easy it was to fall apart in his arms—I won't know what to do with it. And I don't have the strength for that. Not tonight.
"I should… Mom's cats…"
"Will be fine for the night. They have water and food."
Somehow, he makes it sound reassuring, even with that faint edge of irritation underneath. I nod, even though my thoughts feel sluggish. Too many things. Too much. Too?—
I become aware of him again. Not just that he's there. Buthim. The heat of his body still lingering against mine. The strength in his arms from just moments ago. The way he didn't hesitate. Didn't ask. Just… took over.
My stomach tightens. Not like before. Not in fear. Something else. Something I don't want to look at too closely. I glance up and catch him watching me. Not in a casual way, not even politely. Intently.
His eyes drop, just for a second, to my mouth. Then back up. The look is brief. Gone almost as soon as I register it. But it sends a strange, unwelcome shiver down my spine. I scoot back. Just a fraction. Putting space between us. Because whatever that was, I don't have room for it. Not tonight.
My chest tightens. I look away.
I shouldn't have lether see that. The look on my face. That split second where control slipped, and everything underneath showed. The raw, unfiltered hunger I feel every time I'm near her. It's as impossible to suppress as the constant thought: Mine. She's mine.
I drag a hand over my face the moment the door to my bedroom closes behind me again. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? She just lost her husband. Watched him die. He's not even in the ground yet—and I'm standing there looking at her like—like I want to take her apart. Like I want to claim something that isn't mine. A pulse beats at my temple. That's not who I am. I take what I want. I don't deny myself. That's always been the rule. But this?
This is different.
This is off limits. Even for me.
She's grieving. Broken open. And I'm hungry.
"Jesus," I mutter under my breath.
What kind of sick fuck thinks like that? A widow. That's what she is now. And I'm already imagining… No! I shut the thought down hard. Violently. Because that path? That's not one I get to walk. Not with her. Not like this. Not yet. I can still feel her. In my arms. Against my chest. The weight of her. The way she folded into me without thinking. Trusted me. Clung to me like I was something solid in a world that just ripped itself apart.
My hands flex at my sides. Like they remember. Like they don't want to let go. Fuck. She is a perfect fit. That's exactly the problem. She fit too well. Like she belongs there. Like she was made to be held exactly like that, by me.
My chest tightens with unfamiliar, unwelcome emotions. Because it's not just want. It's worse. I would've done anything in that moment to stop her pain. Anything. Burn the city. Kill every man in that warehouse twice over.
Hell—I would've brought her husband back from the dead if I could. The useless prick didn't deserve her, but he didn't deserve to die like that either. Not in front of her. Not like that. A sharp breath leaves me.
