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If Connelly was shocked, he did a good job hiding it. Without a word, he crawled onto the bed beside her, staying on top of the blankets. He didn’t touch her but scooted close enough that their foreheads nearly pressed together.
“Was it my book?” he asked softly.
Moisture gathered in her eyes. She pinched them shut, willing herself not to cry, and shook her head. No, it hadn’t been his book. It hadn’t even been the asshole who attacked her yesterday. It was the same nightmare she always had, three blurred faces leaning over her, laughing, grunting... faces of friends twisted into demons. A tear squeezed out despite her efforts, and he caught it on his thumb.
“I hate seeing you cry, Vee. I wish I could trade places with you, take all of your fear into me just to give you a moment’s peace.”
She sniffled, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “But you can’t. No one can. It’s just something I have to deal with.”
Connelly’s eyes darkened with concern. “But that’s the problem. You’re not dealing with it.”
“I know.” It stung to admit, but he was right and she was so tired.
Tired of the fear.
Tired of not feeling like herself.
Tired of... everything.
She didn’t know how much longer she could live like this.
She scooted forward until her forehead pressed against his, and she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. It was a comfort, an anchor in the storm of her thoughts and feelings. And for the moment, she wasn’t scared. She could never be afraid of him.
“Can you... hold me?”
Connelly’s arms slid around her waist and pulled her close. There were still blankets between them, but she liked the solid weight of his body against hers, the strength of his muscles beneath his t-shirt, and found herself relaxing into his embrace. He was a protector, a defender, and she felt safer with him than she had with anyone in a very long time.
“Where did you get the gun?” she asked, her voice muffled against his neck.
“Ash came by. He wanted to question you, but I told him you needed time.”
“Thank you.”
He rested his chin on top of her head. “You never did tell me why you were at my house earlier.”
“And you never told me about why you were in a cave.”
His soft chuckle made his throat hum against her cheek. “I helped RWCR with a rescue. I helped save a woman today.”
Something in his voice—exhilaration with a note of... was it longing?—had her pulling back to look at him. “You loved it.”
He breathed in deeply and exhaled in a rush. “I did. I forgot how good it feels to help someone during the worst moments of their life. I’ve missed it. Don’t get me wrong, I love writing. I’ve always wanted to write—you know that. But I think I need to help people, too. I think that’s why I haven’t been able to write for a while now.”
She pushed herself up on her elbow. “Are you going to join the team?”
“I’m considering it.”
“You should.” The words gave her a pang of envy. She wished she could be like him, finding a balance between the past and the present. But her past was a gaping hole, sucking up any possibility of moving forward.
Reaching out, she traced the faint scar on his chin. That scar represented everything Connelly Davis was. A fierce protector. A capable healer. A supportive ally even in the worst moments.
“You should,” she said again. “I’m sure the team could use a medic.”
Connelly caught her hand and kissed her knuckles gently. “Vee,” he said in that soft voice of his, full of compassion. “Why does that make you sad?”
“I…” She wanted to be happy for him that he’d found his place again, found a purpose, and she hated that he’d picked up on the note of sadness in her voice. “I wish I could be like you.”
“What do you mean?”
