Page 55 of Freeing Savannah

The doors opened to their floor, and as they stepped into the private corridor leading to their suite, she felt it. The shift. Not just in the air, but in herself. She was ready.

Savannah stepped into the suite past the iPad that rested on a pedestal, waiting to summon anything from champagne to a private chef. She felt the hush of wealth press around her. Throughout this tour, she’d stayed in stunning hotels across Europe, but nothing had prepared her for this. The Presidential Suite wasn’t simply a room. It was a room fit for royalty.

Marble gleamed beneath her heels, polished to a mirror finish that reflected the gold filigree trim. The ceiling arched overhead in soaring curves. To the left, a winding staircase spiraled upward, leading to the private bedroom floor.

Her favorite part, of course, with the grand piano that sat near the panoramic window. Her fingers itched to play it, but that would have to wait. Past the wall of windows, the Arabian Gulf stretched out, its dark surface reflecting the city lights, capturing her attention.

She wandered deeper, past the formal dining room with its eight-seat marble table and centerpiece of fresh orchids, into a suite of bedrooms that looked like they belonged in an Arabian fairytale. Rich silks draped the four-poster bed and carved wood screens added an element of privacy between the sleeping area and the massive dressing rooms.

And then there was the bathroom.

No. Not bathroom. A sanctuary.

Black and white marble. A sunken tub the size of a plunge pool. Gold fixtures shaped like swans. Plush towels embroidered with the Burj’s insignia in silver thread. Hermes bath products in crystal decanters.

It should’ve felt over the top. Too much. Obscene, even. But it didn’t. It was a fantasy wrapped in a fairy tale.

She walked back out into the main living space where Sawyer waited. He stood by the windows and Savannah took a moment to drink him in. His boss had had a new tuxedo waiting for him by the time they’d reached Dubai since his old one had been ruined from his dip in the pool. Plus, he never did figure out where he’d left the jacket and tie.

He turned slightly when he heard her approach. He didn’t speak at first, just waited until she came to stand beside him.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” he said softly.

Neither had he. She knew it. She saw the strain under his eyes, the weight he tried to hide behind protective silence and steel-eyed watchfulness.

“I keep thinking about Baku,” she murmured. “The people in that ballroom. The man who died. I keep seeing the blood.”

Sawyer’s jaw tightened. “Images like that have a way of staying with you,” he murmured.

She studied him and saw the shadows of past horrors in his eyes. “You’ve seen things,” she said gently, not as an accusation but an understanding. A truth she’d felt ever since the first time she saw that flicker in his eyes.

Sawyer didn’t answer right away. Then, without turning to face her, he said, “Yeah. I’ve seen things.”

She waited.

“I’ve pulled a six-year-old girl out of a collapsed building in Afghanistan. I never knew her name. I just remember the dust and blood and a stuffed rabbit clutched in her hand.” His voicewas calm, almost detached, like he was reciting someone else’s story.

Savannah swallowed hard, her chest tightening.

“I’ve seen two teammates bleed out beside me while we waited for an evac that came just a little too late.” His fingers tapped once, sharply, against the window.

She lay her hand on his arm, his image blurry through the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Oh, Sawyer. I’m so sorry.”

He finally looked at her then. His eyes didn’t shine with tears, but the weight in them was worse than any break. “I see them sometimes. When it’s quiet. Or when things get too good.”

She stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the steady, guarded thrum of his heart. “You’re allowed to feel it, Sawyer,” she said softly. “Even heroes bleed. They cry for their lost friends too.”

“I’m no hero,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

She leaned her forehead against his. “You would say that,” she teased, a playful lilt in her voice to lighten the somber mood and dissipate the heavy sadness. “That’s what heroes always say.”

His hand lifted to gently tuck a strand of hair that had escaped the crescent shaped clip behind her ear. Their eyes met. The air changed. Charged with intimacy.

“You’ve always seen me, haven’t you” he whispered. “Even all those years ago when I didn’t know who I was.”

His hand slid down to her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across her skin. “I’ve always known who you were. Twenty years couldn’t change that.”

“Why?”

---