Page 63 of Sacrifice
Every touch is a promise, every kiss a vow.
When she comes apart beneath me, my name on her lips like a prayer, I follow her over, surrendering to something bigger than both of us.
After, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand in her hair.
The city lights paint patterns on the ceiling, and somewhere in the distance, sirens wail.
Her finger traces the scars on my chest, each one a story I've never told her.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly.
"Now you sleep. Tomorrow we deal with everything else."
"I mean with us."
"We figure it out as we go." I press a kiss to her forehead. "But you're here, in my bed, in my home. That's a good start."
"Your fortress," she corrects, a hint of her usual spirit returning.
"Our fortress," I amend. "At least until we know you're safe."
"And then?"
"Then we see if you want to stay because you need to or because you want to."
She's quiet for so long, I think she's fallen asleep.
Then, she whispers so softly I almost miss it: "What if I already know?"
"Then we're ahead of schedule." I tighten my hold on her. "Sleep, Saga. I've got you."
"Promise?"
"Always."
This time, she does sleep, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally wins.
I stay awake longer, plans already forming.
Someone hurt what's mine.
Sent a message written in red fucking spray paint.
Tomorrow, we send a message back.
Tonight, I just hold her, grateful she's here and whole and finally done running from what we both knew was inevitable.
I wake to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.
For a moment, panic flares—did she run?
Then I hear her moving in the kitchen and force myself to relax.
She's at the coffee maker, wearing my t-shirt and nothing else, her hair a mess from sleep.
It's so domestic it makes my chest tight.
Morning light streams through the windows, highlighting the bruise on her shoulder—from me, from last night.
