Page 77 of Wreckage

“Really,” he answered softly. “I think I want to keep you, Elena. If you’ll let me.”

I nodded, throwing caution out the window. “I want you to keep me.”

“Fucking done, baby.” He kissed me again, long and slow, before finally breaking away. Carefully, he moved off me completely before grabbing one of his t-shirts. He cleaned me from the mess we’d made before returning and joining me beneath the covers.

Adrian tucked me against his chest, holding me close. His hand absently traced soothing circles against my spine.

I sighed against him, content for the first time in days.

Then, softly, he murmured, “I have to tell you something.”

I blinked up at him sleepily. “Hmm?”

His fingers drifted through my hair, his expression turning almost sheepish.

“That ballet you were in before we left?” he started.

I frowned slightly, waiting. Steve had flown in to see me and had sat with Zara in the audience. They were my little cheering squad. We’d gone to dinner after. It had been a good night.

“I went.”

My heart stilled.

I pulled back slightly, staring at him. “What?”

He exhaled, shaking his head with a small, fond smile. “I said I wasn’t going. But I did.”

Tears burned behind my eyes.

“You watched me dance?” I whispered.

He brushed his thumb beneath my eyes, catching the tear that slipped free. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, butterfly.”

A choked sound escaped me, something between a laugh and a sob.

Adrian chuckled softly and kissed me, slow and sweet, pressing our foreheads together.

“I’ll go to every show you ever have,” he promised.

“Adrian…” My voice cracked, and he wiped another tear away, smiling gently.

“I mean it,” he said, serious now. “I’ll be there for every single one. And that’s just the beginning.”

He continued, making promise after promise, whispering plans for when we got home, talking about everything we would do, the places we would go.

His words wrapped around me, a lifeline of hope I didn’t realize I needed.

And I believed him.

I needed to believe him.

“I hope you’re right,” I whispered. “Because I want those promises, Adrian. All of them.”

“They’re yours,” he swore.

We lay there for hours, talking, learning things about each other we had never known before.

He asked about school, and I told him about my classes and professors and how I hated mornings but loved the quiet moments in the studio before anyone else arrived.

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