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He studied my face for another second.

I smiled. “I’m fantastic.”

Satisfied, apparently, he disappeared into the bathroom again.

Afterward, he cleaned us both, turned off the lights, then joined me in bed, cradling me from behind.

He was absurdly careful around every scrape and bandage.

His chest settled against my back. One arm slid beneath my pillow.

The other crossed my waist, his hand spreading over my stomach like he needed as much contact as possible without admitting that was what he was doing.

I covered his hand with mine.

He threaded our fingers together immediately.

That acceptance again. No hesitation. No flinch.

No don’t touch me.

I shifted back until every safe part of me was pressed against him.

His face buried briefly in my hair. “Hazel.”

I smiled into the dark. “What?”

He was quiet long enough that I thought he might not answer.

Then his arm tightened. “Nothing.”

For once, nothing was enough.

He held me all night.

I woke to warm sunlight streaming through the bars over my window and a feeling of utter contentment.

For a few blissful moments, waking in Declan’s arms erased it all, as though the last few nightmare days had never happened, as though my mind and body weren’t still battered and reeling.

I’d slept like the dead, but at some point in the night Declan had apparently gotten up long enough to put boxers on himself and panties on me.

It was equal parts cute and frustrating.

At least that was all he’d managed to do. I came to with my cheek pressed to his bare shoulder, face buried in his neck, my naked breasts plastered against him just below his chest, above his lovely abs.

My hair had gone feral in the night. Thick waves of brown and blond were everywhere, across his shoulder, under my cheek, caught beneath one of his arms. The morning sun picked out the lighter streaks and turned them gold where they lay against him.

His hair had suffered too. Dark blond strands stuck up on one side and flattened on the other, the usually controlled Chief reduced to something softer and sleep-rumpled.

His skin was warmer and more golden than mine, my honey-toned arm draped over his stomach, the contrast subtle but somehow fascinating at this distance.

I wasn’t sure if he was awake, but one part of him certainly was.

What did last night mean to him? What did he think it meant to me? What happens now?

I didn’t want to talk about it today. Life felt a bit too delicate to ruin this.

But I wouldn’t mind another taste of it.