“They know their jobs.”
“I can walk.”
“No.”
Her mouth opens.
I look down at her. “Do not argue with me right now, Kaia.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
Good. Angry is better than scared.
“Where are you taking me?”
I carry her away from the smoke, toward my cabin.
“Your place is gone for tonight.”
Her grip tightens around my neck.
“I can call Joyce.”
“No.”
“I can stay at a hotel.”
“No.”
“Zain.”
I stop and look at her.
She is exhausted, smoke-streaked, stubborn, and holding that damn sketchbook like it contains state secrets.
My decision settles with a certainty I have not felt in years. She has nowhere to sleep tonight, she is still shaking despite trying to hide it, and the thought of handing her over to a hotel room or sending her across town sits wrong in a way I have no intention of examining.
I know where she will be safe. I know where I can make sure she breathes through the night, where I can hear if she coughs, and where I can see for myself that she is still there.
The need behind that thought is something I refuse to examine.
“You’re staying with me.”
Chapter 3
Kaia
Myhouseisburningbehind me, most of what I own is probably gone, and somehow my pulse is racing hardest because Zain Carson is carrying me to his cabin with my body tucked securely against his.
There is probably a diagnosis for this.
I hope it is treatable.
I should be thinking about my clothes, my paintings, Ivy, and the boxes of old photographs I almost left behind when I moved because pretending I did not care seemed easier than admitting I still did.
Instead, I keep noticing stupid things: the steady rise and fall of Zain’s breathing, the way his hand shifts against my back whenever his stride changes, how carefully he holds me as though letting me slip even an inch is not an option.
My throat tightens.
