Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Once the water turns cold, I help her out of the tub, wrapping her in the biggest towel we have, and I rub her arms and back until she stops shivering. Then I carry her back to the bedroom, and set her in the chair next to the bed as I change the sheets on the bed. She watches me move around the room: changing the sheets, pulling on boxers, grabbing clean clothes for her, bringing a glass of water and a small plate of fruit I cut yesterday.
She’s moved to the bed, and I sit on the edge to feed her a strawberry. She takes it from my fingers with her lips, deliberate, teasing just enough to make me smile.
“Eat,” I tell her. “You need it after last night.”
She chews slowly, eyes on mine. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Get used to it.”
When she’s finished I pull the towel away, help her into soft cotton panties and one of my T-shirts—the gray one she loves because it smells like me. Then I climb in beside her, pull her back against my chest, arms wrapped around her waist. My hand rests flat on her stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles over the fabric.
She sighs. “This is nice.”
“Yeah.” I press my face into her damp hair, and breathe her in. “This is everything.”
We stay like that for a long time. The world outside can wait another hour. Another day. Right now there’s only her heartbeat against my palm, the slow rhythm of her breathing, the way her fingers lace through mine and hold on like she never wants to let go.
I kiss the back of her neck, soft and lingering.
“Rest, baby,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
And for once, she believes me.
She falls asleep again in my arms, safe and cared for.
I stay awake a little longer, just holding her, memorizing the feel of her against me. Because no matter what comes next—van or no van, threat or no threat—this is what I fight for.
This quiet.
This woman.
This life we’re building one careful, sensual, reverent moment at a time.
NINETEEN
SALEM
The sheets are a wreck. So am I. In the best, most dangerous way.
I’m tangled up with Ozzy in that soft, boneless afterglow where my body feels like it’s been wrung out and put back together wrong—wrong like right—and the room smells like warm skin and sleep and something sweet I don’t have a name for.
Ozzy is on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other curved around me like he forgot how to let go sometime around midnight and never bothered relearning. My cheek is pressed to his chest, listening to that steady heartbeat like it’s the only clock I trust.
The lamp is still on low.
Outside, the world is still out there—white vans and shadows and men who buy people like they’re objects.
But in here? In here it’s just Ozzy’s heat and my breath and the way my body keeps humming like it hasn’t accepted the fact that we stopped.
I shift slightly, and Ozzy’s arm tightens automatically. A low sound rumbles out of him—half groan, half warning. It sends a warm pulse straight through me.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and all the things we did to each other.
I tilt my head up, smiling lazily. “What?”
Ozzy cracks one eye open. His gaze slides over my face, my mouth, my hair falling everywhere. The look he gives me is equal parts pleased and wrecked.
“You keep moving like that,” he says, “and we’re not getting up today.”
My stomach flips. “Is that a threat?”
Ozzy’s mouth twitches. “It’s a promise.”
I laugh softly, because a promise like that feels absurdly comforting. And also because I’m still learning what it feels like to be wanted without a catch. I’ve never had this before. Not even my own parents ever wanted me.
I settle back against him, tracing idle shapes on his chest with my fingertips. There are lines of ink there—tattoos I haven’t studied enough yet, stories on skin that make me curious. I’m still not sure what I’m allowed to ask. Still not sure what I’m allowed to keep.
My smile fades a little, the edge of the world sneaking back in.
Ozzy notices immediately. He always does. His hand slides up my back, slow and grounding. “Hey.”
I hum, pretending I’m fine.
He doesn’t buy it.
So I change the subject before my brain can spiral into the ugly place where I don’t deserve this. “Tell me about your friends,” I say quietly.
Ozzy’s fingers pause, then resume their slow stroke. “My friends?”
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my head again. “The team. The people you talk to. The ones who… do all this with you.”
His eyes sharpen, but not in a suspicious way—more like he’s checking whether talking about them will make me anxious.
I shrug slightly. “I want to know who you are when you’re not just… with me.”