But it is. Bruises are already forming across my ribs in dark purple blooms from where I took a hit during the fight. There's a shallow cut on my shoulder from flying debris, still oozing slightly. Nothing life-threatening, nothing that won't heal, but enough to make her face go pale in the dim light.
"You're hurt," she breathes, her fingers hovering over the bruises without quite touching, like she's afraid of causing more pain.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Her hands finally land on my skin, feather-light, mapping the damage. "You could have been killed tonight. Any one of those bullets—"
"But they didn't. I wasn't."
"Because you got lucky."
"Because I'm good at what I do. I've been doing it for twenty-five years." I catch her wrist gently, feeling her pulse racing under my fingers. "Aurora. I'm okay. I'm here. We both are."
She looks at me with those dark eyes, and I see it all written there, the fear she's been holding back since the attack. The terror from tonight layered over the trauma of her mother's murder. The weight of being eight years old and watching someone you love die.
"I thought… when that man grabbed me, I thought he was going to—" Her voice breaks on the words.
"I know."
"You went crazy. I watched you beat him to death and you didn't even hesitate. You just…" She shakes her head. "I've never seen anyone move like that."
"He touched you. He hurt you." My grip on her wrist tightens slightly, remembering the rage that had consumed me. "No one gets to do that and live."
"Why?" Her voice cracks. "Why do you care so much?"
Because I'm falling for you. Because you've gotten under my skin and I can't get you out.
But I can't say that. Not yet. Not when everything's balanced on a knife's edge.
So instead of speaking, I show her.
I pull her closer, between my legs, and wrap my arms around her waist. Press my face into her chest, into her stomach where our baby is growing, hidden beneath skin and muscle and the clothes that conceal the truth from everyone else.
She goes rigid, her whole body tensing. "Axel."
"Please." The word comes out rough, almost broken. "Just, let me stay like this. Just for a minute. Please."
I feel her hesitate, feel the war happening inside her. Then her hand comes to my hair, her fingers threading through it with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.
I groan.
The sound is involuntary, desperate, pulled from somewhere deep inside me. Her touch is everything I've been craving, soft and gentle and real. Proof that she's here, alive, safe. That I didn't lose her tonight.
"Are you okay?" she whispers, her fingers continuing their gentle exploration of my hair.
"No."
"What's wrong?"
"I almost lost you tonight." My arms tighten around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. "When that man grabbed you, when I saw his hands on you, saw the fear in your eyes. I've never been that scared in my life. Not in prison. Not ever."
Her fingers keep stroking through my hair, slow and soothing. "You saved me."
"Barely."
"You saved me," she repeats, her voice firm now. "You got me out of that dining room. You killed three men to keep me safe. You got me to the safe room. You kept me alive, Axel."
"This time. What about next time? What about when I'm not there to protect you?"