I lift my head to her, and she smiles, wiping away my tears. “I’ve never seen you cry. Not like this. It’s not like the first time you thought I was going to die.” She chuckles.
“Don’t ever joke about this.”
“Too soon? I’m sorry. I meant I bashed my head on a rock a few days ago. It was more dangerous than falling asleep in the tub for two minutes. Why—?”
“I wasn’t there. This time, I wasn’t there for you.”
She puts her hands on either side of my face, and I let them stay there. I welcomehertouch, seek it, fucking need it. Warm. Anchoring. Bringing me back to life. “But you came for me, and I’m alive. You saved me…again. Don’t you see? We are survivors, Tristan. It’s what we do. We survive. That’s why you have to believe I’d never hurt myself.”
“I believe you.” I push the words out.
“I’m okay now,” she whispers. “You found me. You always do.”
“If anything happened to you, I’d burn down the world. I’d carve a hole in the sky just to follow you.”
“Oh, Tristan, that’s so sweet.” She stares at me, and it feels like she can see all the way into the back of my skull. “But you keep forgetting one thing.”
“What is it?”
“You, too, are a survivor.” Her stare is not invasive or uncomfortable but a brutal type of kindness, a shared understanding of the wounds that shaped us. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why you understand.”
Not without you. I won’t survive it. The world wouldn’t either.
CHAPTER 27
Tristan
The monitors flicker in my hotel room. Twelve feeds. I focus only on her angles, only on her. I should look away. Give her privacy. But I can’t. Not after what happened. Not after I pulled her half-dead body from the bath. She said she didn’t mean it, and I believe her. I do. But belief doesn’t make the images go away.
Birdie is asleep now. Her hand twitches against the blanket, restless even in her dreams. She’s fighting something in her sleep, like she always is. I watch the curve of her jaw, the way her lips part and then close again. The way she curls into herself. The way her toes twitch. The way she pulls the sheets over her face like they can protect her.
I tell myself it’s for security. That I need to monitor her for signs of distress. But if I’m honest, it’s worse than that now. I’m studying her. Memorizing her. Obsessing over her. I’m slowly turning into the thing I’m supposed to protect her from.
I’ve become worse than her stalker.
An email pops up on the screen. It’s from the techs at Monarca. The final and complete list of the people who worked and studied at the school in Miami when Birdie was a teacher. Janitors. Staff. Teachers. Students. Volunteers. Substitutes. The list is long, and the notes are longer. Background checks, employment history and red flags. They’ve color-coded it for her to review. Green for cleared. Yellow for low threat. Red for urgent.
The hum of electronics is the only sound in the room. I lean back in the chair. I should go over the list myself before I give it to her, but I can’t keep my eyes off of her. That’s not going to help.
I shove my phone in my pocket, grab my laptop and, slowly, open the connecting door to her suite. Watching her through a screen isn’t enough. If I’m going to get any work done, I need to be in the same room with her.
The carpet muffles my steps. Her room smells like lavender, her favorite color, her favorite scent. I sit in the armchair by the window, far enough not to disturb her, close enough to hear her breathe.
The laptop balanced on my thighs hums softly. List still open, I go over parts of it, names blurring together. I switch my gaze toward her instead.
She shifts under the sheets again and turns her face toward me, half-covered by a strand of hair. Her brow furrows like she knows I’m here. A chill climbs my spine. Does she sense me?
She lets out a sound—a soft, broken moan—and I’m up before I realize it. Standing over her. One hand gripping the laptop. The other curled into a fist I can’t unclench. Her eyelids flutter. She’s waking.
What would I say when she sees me here? Who am I going to be today? Her protector or the man who keeps crossing lines, convincing himself it’s in her best interest? The man who would kill to have her in his arms, to taste her lips, to fuck every hole she has and carve every sound and face she makes to memory until the day he dies?
Her eyes blink open, hazy with sleep and shadows. For a moment, she looks confused, caught in the quiet limbo between dream and reality. Then her gaze locks onto me.
She doesn’t speak. Just stares. Her lips press into a line hardened by suspicion. She draws the sheets tighter around her body, as if only just remembering I shouldn’t be there.
I wait for the regular question,what are you doing here, my mind ready to deliver a lie.
“You’re watching me sleep,” she says. Not a question. An indictment.