“Good,” he echoed. “Because I’d come find you if you did.”
They lay quietly together for a while, her fingers absent-mindedly drawing circles on his chest, before she whispered, “I still have nightmares about my mother’s wedding.”
That caught him off guard. Not the words. But the tone. Quiet. Flat. Like someone remembering something best left forgotten. He said nothing, letting her have the space to share at her own pace.
“Remember? I was thirteen, in that awful barely a teenage girl phase. The press made it sound like a fairy tale. The widow bravely raising her daughter alone and the larger than life senator. I was paraded out in pearls and a white dress, like some kind of political debutante.” She laughed without humor. “What they didn’t see was me standing in the wings after the ceremony while my mom signed NDAs for his staff and told me, ‘Smile bigger, Savannah. You look ungrateful.’”
Voodoo’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.
“I lost my name that day,” she said. “Became an asset. A puppet. A leverage piece. Everything after that was about control. Where I played. Who I spoke to. How long I smiled for the camera. Even who I dated was controlled byhim.”
She tilted her head to look up at him then, eyes dark and shining. “And I played along. Because it was easier than fighting.”
Voodoo’s breath caught. The raw ache in her words caused a sharp, physical ache in his heart. From the fact that someone had once told this girl—this woman who made music sound like redemption—that her value was in being palatable, marketable.Controllable. It was unfathomable to him. He wanted to punch something. Or better yet,someone.
“You fought,” he said. “You’re still fighting.”
She shook her head. “No. I hid. Behind walls I built myself. Even worse, I obeyed.
He cupped her cheek. “You survived. And now you’re here with me, telling the truth. That takes more guts than anyone in that goddamn political machine.”
He noticed the moment something inside her crack. It didn’t break. It just peeled back enough for light to get in.
“I don’t want to be an ornament anymore,” she whispered. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”
Voodoo squeezed her tightly to him and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Then don’t. You’re not a symbol, Savi. You’re a storm in satin and sound. And no one gets to silence that.”
For a moment, she just lay there. Breathing. Feeling.
Then lay her head back down on his chest. She didn’t need rescuing. She was strong enough to free herself.
CHAPTER 24
Savannah awoke surrounded by warmth.
The light in Dubai was different, somehow softer, filtered through the gold-toned curtains. Savannah blinked awake, warm and cocooned in Sawyer’s arms, the sheets tangled around them like a secret.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Not with the way her heart had been pounding so wildly just hours ago, not with the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. But sleep had come easily in his arms. A deep, dreamless sleep. She had never felt more peaceful. More safe. Morefree.
She turned her face into his bare shoulder, savoring the steady beat of his heart under her cheek. His arm tightened around her instinctively.
For a moment, there was no Senator. No diplomatic mission. No media. No eyes watching her every move. There was just this: her body sore in places that reminded her of everything she and Sawyer had shared the night before, and her heart full of something she hadn’t let herself feel in years.
If it wasn’t love, it was dangerously close to it.
Everything about last night played behind her eyelids in fragments: his hands, his mouth, the way he’d touched her likeshe wasn’t breakable but precious. She had spent years learning how to obey and quiet herself, how to take up less space, how to become invisible beneath the Senator’s expectations. But with Sawyer . . . she had feltseen.
She smiled into the hollow of his throat.
“You’re smiling,” he murmured, his voice still sleep-rough.
“You’re warm,” she whispered.
His arms tightened around her. “You’re mine.”
Her chest caught, something fluttering behind her ribs. She didn’t say it aloud, but the thought echoed in her mind:And you’re mine.
They kissed lazily, sweet and slow, until reality tugged at her from the edges. They had another plane to catch. This time to Oman. She didn’t know much about the middle eastern country or its capital, Muscat, where the Royal Opera House she would be performing in was located. It was time to put the mask back on. But just a few more minutes . . .