Page 33 of Last Man Standing

“Good.” I pat her hip. “Hop off. Then I’m gonna wrap my arm around your throat.”

Her cheeks pale and her pulse stops dead against her neck.

If she and Lincoln had never ended that prick’s life, Scarlett’s reactions today would be enough to send me on my merry way.

I don’t mind trading a little of my soul for retribution. Not when the kill is justified.

Not when his existence left her terrified of every fucking man on this planet besides one.

I’m not that one.

“Relax.” I help her down, steady her on her feet, then I turn her around and yank her back against my chest. I show her rough, when I know she wishes I wouldn’t. Crass, when I know it bothers her. But if a man wants to hurt her, he’s not gonna be careful, and he’s not gonna be kind.

“Get ready, Princess.” I snake my arm around her neck and pull her in tight enough that I know she’ll feel the sharp edge of my forearm against her windpipe. “How do you escape this hold? I want you to show me. And next time, I want you to have a blade in your pocket.”

13

SEBASTION

THE THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

When you’re me, you learn to sleep light. Or else.

If the floorboards creak on the opposite side of the house, you wake. If there’s a rattle of a window, you notice, even if that rattle turns out to be a simple, soft kiss of the wind. And if a woman continues to cry while she sleeps, night after night after fucking night, you crawl out of bed and stand in her doorway awhile just to see why.

For twenty consecutive nights, I’ve stood inside an otherwise silent home, and I’ve peeked into Scarlett’s room to find her making a mess of her bed.

Not a good mess, either.

The kind where her sheets wrap around her limbs like tentacles, her hair circles her throat tight enough to make me worry, and her legs slide, slide, slide back and forth until her restlessness threatens to send me insane.

She tosses and turns from the moment her eyes close until they open again in the morning. She wages war with her blankets and whimpers when, time and time again, they win.

She cries in her sleep and mutters things that make me reconsider my stance on her princess’y status, since royal folks usually control an army of protectors, and the things Scarlett cries about couldn’t possibly have happened to a princess safely guarded in a tower high in the sky.

So, not a princess. But a warrior. A fighter.

A dragon slayer.

For the twentieth night in a row, though the last six have been far easier to manage without Linc in the house, I press my back to the frame of her door and lower until my ass touches the floor.

I won’t stay all night. I won’t even stay long enough to risk her waking and seeing me, but for an hour, I find a little comfort in the warmth still pulsing from the fireplace in the living room. I learned my lesson after the first night. Resting my head back, tilting it to the side, and cataloging Scarlett at her most vulnerable, I talk myself down, as I’ve done every other night, from crawling closer and tugging the hair from around her throat.

It scares me.

While I’m there, I could untangle her legs from the sheets.

But I don’t do that either.

Waking her while she’s like this bears a far greater risk than any alternative.

So I bring my knees up instead, draping one arm over the peaks, and when my phone vibrates with an incoming text, I unlock it with my free hand and read the words populating my screen.

Mav:

When are you coming back? Folks are getting pissed. BIG pissed.

Exhaling a quiet sigh, I type a response.