“I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice softens instantly. “Breathe for me, trouble.”
His hands slide down my arms slowly, grounding and steady.
“You’re safe now.”
I stare at him through blurred vision as he guides me patiently, his own chest rising and falling in tandem with mine.
In.
Out.
Again.
“Good girl. Nice and slow for me.”
Eventually, the panic loosens enough for me to actually see him properly, and I actually register the blood smeared across the side of his neck. “You’re hurt.”
He runs his hands over his skin, and his eyes soften immediately. “It’s not mine. I’m okay.”
Relief crashes through me so violently, my entire body sags against him. His arms tighten almost painfully around me again, like he still can’t convince himself I’m actually here. His lips press to the top of my head, and he whispers, “I have never been that scared in my entire fucking life.”
I tilt my head back enough to look at him. His eyes are locked on me with an intensity so raw it almost steals the breath from my lungs. He pulls me impossibly closer and presses his lips to my forehead.
“I don’t know what I’d do if—” The words stop abruptly as he sighs shakily, like even saying them out loud hurts too much.
My fingertips dig into his shoulders as his half-confession threatens to devastate me. This man—this terrifyingly controlled, lethal man—would have doneanythingtrying to get to me.
Damon’s hand slides around the back of my neck and into my hair, fisting it just enough to press his lips to mine. It isn’t frantic or hungry, the way our kisses usually are. This kiss feels stripped completely bare. His mouth trembles slightly because this isn’t about desire at all—it’s relief. A broken sound escapes my throat as I kiss him back. His forehead presses harder against mine between breaths. Anuneven exhale leaves him when my fingers slide into his hair.
“You’re mine to protect,” he whispers roughly against my lips. “Mine to take care of. And I swear to fucking God, nobody isevergetting that close to you again.” The possessiveness in his voice should probably terrify me. Instead, it makes my entire chest ache, because he means it—every last word.
Damon drops one more kiss on my mouth, slower this time, before carefully pulling back. His hands linger on my face for another second, like he physically doesn’t want to let go.
“Can you stand for me?” he asks softly. I nod, even though I’m not entirely sure.
He shifts first, unfolding himself from the cramped closet floor, helping me carefully. My legs are shaky as I crawl to my feet, one hand clinging tightly to his forearm. The second I stand fully, my knees nearly buckle.
“Easy.” Damon catches me instantly, gripping my waist before I can collapse. “I’ve got you.” He steadies me patiently until my balance returns enough to stand on my own.
He walks me from the closet. My bedroom is wrecked. Furniture lies overturned, and one of my lamps has shattered completely against the wall; glass glittered everywhere beneath the soft bedroom lighting. The mattress has been partially dragged off the bedframe, as if bodies crashed into it during the fight. On the far side of the back wall, dark crimson smears streak across the white marble in violent streaks that cause my stomach to lurch.
Damon’s hand tightens around mine, and he steps directly into my line of sight, blocking everything else from view. “Don’t look,” he instructs. “Just look at me.”
I swallow hard and focus on him. He lifts our joined hands and presses my knuckles briefly to his lips before guiding me carefully toward the bedroom door.
His fingers stay locked with mine, like some part of him still believes I could disappear if he relaxes his grip for even a second.
“Jesus Christ,” Gunnar mutters from down the corridor, blood smeared along his arm and a gun still clenched tightly in his hand. His eyes scan over me quickly before settling on Damon. “She okay?”
“She is now,” Damon answers. And the way his fingers tighten around mine tells me everything I need to know.
He’s never letting go of me again.
The house smells faintly like smoke and gunpowder beneath the expensive wood polish. The security team moves through the compound in clipped voices over the comms, trying to restore order. Upstairs, the staff are still cleaning the blood from her bedroom floor.
On the couch, Mackenzi trembles against me as she falls in and out of sleep, curled so tightly into my chest, I can barely separate where she ends and I begin. One of her fists is tangled in my shirt, hard enough to wrinkle the fabric beneath her knuckles, and the other presses flat against my ribs like she needs to physically reassure herself I’m with her.
