“I married you because I couldn’t allow another man to own your future.”
The words land between us like a strike.
Her eyes widen. “That’s not strategy.”
“No,” I say, just as quietly. “It isn’t.”
I see it then—the confusion, yes, but beneath it something darker. Awareness. Heat. The same dangerous pull coiled tight in my own chest.
“You didn’t have the right,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Then why?” Her voice wavers. “Why say that to me?”
Because I’m tired of lying. Because the truth has teeth.
“Because the thought of someone else deciding what happens to you—hurting you, breaking you, claiming you—makes something inside me go feral,” I say. “And I don’t trust that part of myself. But I trust it more than I trust Markov.”
I step closer before I can stop myself. Close enough that her breath stutters. Close enough that the space between us disappears. My fingers lift, almost hesitant, and then I touch her jaw—carefully, with the same ruinous tenderness that undid me last night.
“You’re safe now,” I tell her.
She swallows. Her eyes don’t leave mine. “Safety isn’t the same thing as living.”
Something hardens in my expression. Not anger. Resolve.
“You will live,” I say quietly. “And you will live with me.”
Her lips part, but no argument comes. Just exhaustion. Fear. Too much adrenaline burned away. I open my arms, not commanding, not forcing—just offering.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She hesitates for a heartbeat. Then she steps into me.
She melts against my chest like she’s been holding herself together with sheer will alone. My arms close around her automatically, anchoring, steady. Her forehead presses into my shoulder. I feel the tremor run through her body, deep and involuntary.
I guide her to the bed, slow and careful, and ease her down. When I lie behind her, I keep my distance at first—mybody rigid with restraint. But when she shivers, when her breath turns shallow, I reach out.
I draw her back into my chest.
She fits there too easily.
Her back settles against me, her head tucked beneath my chin. My arm wraps around her waist, firm but protective, my hand resting flat against her stomach as if I can keep the world out by sheer force of will.
She relaxes. Slowly. Finally.
Outside, boots move along stone. Radios murmur. Guards patrol the perimeter as shadows press closer to the estate walls. I don’t sleep. I listen. I calculate. I plan.
Danger is tightening.
Markov is getting bold.
And anyone who tries to take her again will die.
Because Raelyn Hart is no longer collateral.
She is mine.