Page 32 of What We Burn

I stand in the doorway, looking over her sleeping form. She’s on her side, knees pulled up, one hand tucked under her cheek. The moonlight through the blinds falls in stripes across her face, and I can see the bruising on her neck even in the half-dark. It’s fading, yellowing at the edges, the worst of the purple turning to brown. But it’s still there. Something I look at every day to remind myself of one thing.

I will destroy whoever did this.

I should go to bed. To the pull-out in the den that’s surprisingly comfortable. But I don’t move. In the weeks before the attack, I slept beside her more often than I didn’t. These weeks without her have been . . . taxing. I miss the feeling of her in my arms, the warmth of her body against mine.

I step into her room.

Not to wake her. Just to . . . I don’t know. See her up close? Make sure she’s breathing? Watch the rise and fall of her chest, evidence she’s alive.

Sage stirs.

“Holden?” Her voice is sleep-thick and rough, still carrying that rasp that makes my chest ache every time I hear it. She’s half-awake, blinking at me in the dark, her hand reaching out across the empty side of the bed.

“I’m here. Go back to sleep, wildcat.”

“What time is it?”

“Late. Go back to sleep, love.”

She watches me through heavy lids. Then she shifts, pulling the covers back on the empty side. A wordless invitation that says more than any sentence could.

“Get in with me,” she murmurs. “Please.”

I should say no. She’s still healing. Still vulnerable. She’s in a bed in my house surrounded by men who would kill for her—who have killed for her—and the last thing she needs is another body in her space, another set of hands that could accidentally become another set of demands.

“I’ve been working all day. I probably stink.”

“Just get in the bed, Holden.”

The corner of my mouth kicks up at that. I take off my jacket. My shoes. My belt. I leave my T-shirt and jeans on because there are lines, and I’m a man who understands lines, even when every part of me wants to cross them.

I lie down beside her. On top of the covers. Keeping the barrier.

She makes a small, dissatisfied sound and shuffles closer, her hand finding my chest. Her palm is warm through the cotton, and I can feel my heartbeat pick up under her fingers.

“Under, please.”

“Sage—”

“I don’t want to feel the covers between us. I want to feel you.”

I close my eyes.

She will be the death of me.

I lift the covers and slide under them, and she’s against me immediately—her face pressed into my chest, her legs tangling with mine. Her hand fists in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. She’s warm and small and she smells faintly of the lavender soap Micah bought her the other day.

I wrap my arms around her carefully. One across her back, one cradling the back of her head, my fingers threading into her hair. She lets out a breathy sigh.

“Missed you,” she whispers into my chest.

“I’ve been here.”

“No, you’ve been working. Coming home late, leaving early. I see you for ten minutes a day and you spend nine of them asking if I’m okay.”

She’s right. I have been keeping my distance. Not because I want to—because every time I look at her neck, I see the case I haven’t solved, and the guilt turns me into someone who’s all function and no feeling. The cop takes over. The man disappears.

“I’m sorry.”