Page 96 of Cyclone

With him.

55

Cyclone

The kettle whistled.

Jude didn’t move.

She was curled up on the couch in my hoodie and leggings, a dog-eared paperback in her lap, and her feet tucked under a quilt she claimed she didn’t need but liked to have her feet warm.

I crossed the room with two mugs and handed her the one with the chipped rim—the one she always reached for.

“Green tea?” she asked, eyeing me over the edge of the mug.

“Calm blend,” I said. “River’s orders.”

She snorted. “Tell him I survived CIA black sites, I can handle a little caffeine.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s making spaghetti and bossing Sean around like it’s boot camp.”

She grinned.

Grinned.

God, I’d missed that.

She curled her legs tighter beneath her and leaned against my side as I sat down beside her.

“You ever think it would feel like this?” she asked after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Safe. Simple.Ours.”

I looked down at her, at the way her lashes brushed her cheek, at the little crease between her eyebrows that only showed up when she was lost in thought.

And I told her the truth.

“No. But now that I have it, I’m never letting go.”

56

Jude

Three days later, I woke up before the sun.

Not because of nightmares.

Not because of fear.

Just because I wanted to watch the man beside me breathe.

Cyclone slept like a soldier—on his back, one hand draped over his chest, the other resting near mine.

Even in sleep, he kept me close.

I traced the line of his jaw with my gaze, memorizing the way his lashes curled at the tips and the faint scar above his temple.

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