Page 43 of Owned In Misty Mountain

I pause in front of her bed.

It’s made neatly. Sheets pulled tight. Pillow fluffed.

And I hate every inch of it.

I picture her curled up here—too small, too alone. I picture her waking up cold. Trying to sleep after a long day without me wrapped around her.

No.

This isn’t home anymore.

Not for her.

“I don’t like it,” I mutter.

“What? My room?”

“This bed.” I grip the footboard. “It’s bullshit.”

She crosses her arms. “It fits me fine.”

“Barely.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do,” I cut her off. “You need space. Comfort.”

“Mike—”

I turn to face her.

She’s glaring. Chin tilted. Mouth set.

So damn beautiful I forget how to breathe.

“You’re moving in,” I say.

Her lips part. “Again? Mike, we talked about this…”

“I’m not deciding for you.” I step closer. “I’m telling you what I need.”

She blinks.

“I need you home with me. In my bed. In my house. Where I know you’re warm and fed and fucking safe.”

“You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” I growl. “Because I’ve seen what it’s like to lose things. I’ve held death in my hands. And I’m not spending one more night wondering if you’re okay in this goddamn matchbox while I lie awake two miles away.”

She swallows. Looks away.

Then—softly—“You’re serious.”

“Dead.”

Her eyes flick back to mine. She sees it.

All of it.

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