We finally got our second chance at a happy ending, and we’re not letting it slip away this time. I stare at the sky for a moment over his shoulder, admiring the moon and the stars, forcing this memory to stick. I never want to forget this night for as long as I live. My arms tighten around him, feeling every movement, listening to every sound. I’m so present in this that it makes me nearly overflow with joy.
Our eyes meet. The world narrows to his gaze, the moonlight on his cheekbones, the strand of dark hair dangling across his forehead. He’s beautiful. He’s mine. He’s here, inside me, and nothing has ever felt more right.
A broken sound leaves him before his mouth crashes onto mine. The kiss swallows his groan as his body locks, muscles seizing. He keeps kissing me through it. Keeps moving, drawing out every last spasm until we collapse together on the dock, tangled and trembling and utterly spent. For a long moment, there is only breathing.
He lifts his head, kissing my cheek. “You’re my life, Emma.”
I cup his face in my hands. “You’re mine.” My eyes water, remembering how terrified he looked when I got shot. I remember how his voice was the last thing I heard before going under.
Jude Graves is my soulmate in every sense of the word. And I’m his.
Chapter forty-five
MICAH PRESCOTT
Two months later
The windows are open tonight. Warm ocean air drifts through our apartment while music hums softly from the little speaker sitting near the sink. The entire place smells like garlic and butter and whatever fruity candle Heather lit an hour ago. That girl makes me buy her a new candle every single time we go to the store. Apparently, I owe her for everything that happened in Russia.
I don’t care. I’ll owe her forever. She wakes up every day, still choosing me. So I’ll give her the damn world if she asks.
I stand barefoot in the kitchen holding two plates while she moves around me in one of my old band hoodies and denim shorts, humming absently beneath her breath while she stirs mashed potatoes onthe stove.
And for the first time in a very long time, nothing hurts. The bullet wound still aches sometimes if I sleep wrong, and certain movements pull sharply enough to remind me exactly what happened in Moscow. But it’s manageable now. And the nightmares are less frequent, too.
Heather turns suddenly, pointing the spoon toward me. “You’re being weird.”
I blink once before realizing I’ve been frozen in place just watching her. “Sorry,” I mumble automatically.
She smirks with a sexy little wink.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Golden blonde hair falling messily around her shoulders. Pink lips shiny from the sip of wine she stole from me earlier. Bare legs moving across warm hardwood floors while sunset light spills through the windows behind her.
Home.
This is something I always thought I’d die before seeing.
“You okay?” she asks gently, her expression softening now, like she’s genuinely concerned.
I nod quickly. “Yeah.”
She narrows her eyes, like she doesn’t believe me for a second. Then the song changes, fading into“Freakin' Out”by Dexter and the Moonrocks. Her entire face lights up mischievously before she abandons the stove completely and walks straight toward me.
“No,” I warn instantly, already laughing.
“Yes.”
“Heather.”
“You’re dancing with me!”
I barely manage to set the plates onto the counter before she steals my hands and pulls me into the middle of the kitchen.
“We’re about to eat, and I’m fucking hungry,” I argue weakly.
“We can eat in a minute.”