My hand came up before I could stop it. Thumb brushing her cheek. Catching the tears still sliding down skin too soft, too fragile, too precious for the world that kept trying to break her.
I'd never touched anyone like this. Gentle. Careful. Like she mattered more than breathing.
"Olivia." Her name left my mouth barely above a whisper. Not asking permission. Not checking if this was allowed. Just needing to say it—to hear those syllables out loud, to claim this moment as real instead of another thing I'd spend years trying to forget.
She leaned in.
Every defense I'd built shattered.
I kissed her. Slow. Deliberate. My mouth finding hers with a certainty that had nothing to do with restraint and everything to do with inevitability. This was always going to happen. From the moment I'd recognized her in that café. From the moment she'd looked at me like I wasn't a monster. From the moment I'd realized keeping my distance was a lie I couldn't maintain.
My other hand came up, cupping her face. Holding her steady. Keeping her anchored while I poured years of want and terror and desperate devotion into the space where our mouths met. Deep. Consuming. Not rushed—we had time, we had this moment, and I refused to waste a second of it by taking when I could give instead. Reverent. Like she was something sacred. Like touching her required permission from God. Like this mattered more than hockey, more than my career, more than every careful boundary I'd ever drawn to keep people out.
Fury tangled with devotion until I couldn't separate them. Rage at everyone who'd hurt her. Rage at myself for not protecting her sooner. Rage at the universe for making her suffer when she deserved nothing but safety.
And underneath it all—woven through every stroke of my tongue against hers, every soft sound she made, every trembling breath we shared—devotion so absolute it terrified me.
I wasn't taking from her. I was promising.
I will keep you safe.
I will destroy anyone who tries to hurt you.
You are mine to protect.
Always.
Chapter 27
Olivia
I woke wrapped in sheets that smelled like cedar and frost.
Rhys's bed. Rhys's shirt hanging loose on my frame. Rhys's fingerprints still ghosting across my skin in bruises I couldn't see but felt with every breath.
Everything ached. Not pain—something deeper. Like my body had been remade overnight into something that belonged to him.
I should've felt scared.
I felt safe instead.
The bathroom mirror showed me exactly what I expected: wild hair, swollen mouth, shadows under my eyes from a night that contained too much emotion and not nearly enough sleep. I splashed cold water on my face and tried to become the version of myself who could handle a shift at the café. Failed. Changed into clean clothes anyway.
When I emerged, Rhys stood in the kitchen with two travel mugs. Black coffee for him. Something lighter for me. He'd memorized how I took it without asking.
"I can take the bus," I said.
His expression didn't shift. "No."
"Rhys—"
"I'm driving you."
I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. The look on his face made it clear this wasn't negotiable. He'd decided I belonged under his protection, and every instinct he possessed would enforce that decision until I stopped fighting.
So I stopped fighting.
The drive passed in comfortable silence. His hand found mine across the console. Held tight. Like letting go meant losing me.
