Page 141 of Surrender to Me
The last three weeks have been amazing.
We’ve spent our days cooking together, taking long walks, watching movies, and bingeing crime dramas. For endless hours, we’ve curled up in front of the fireplace sipping cocoa and talking, revealing all the secrets we’ve both carried so deeply.
I’ve seen Stryker teasing and lighthearted, serious during discussions with Hawkeye, and furious that my father repeatedly betrayed me.
On several occasions, Stryker mentioned having a child. Or two.
And I had to confess; I need time to sort through my past.
My childhood had been about running, hiding, danger, being left alone.
While other girls were going to prom, I was at the firing range or dodging cops while driving getaway cars.
But this morning, I’m having flashes of my earlier years, happier days. Of my mom when I was really little.
She was caring, nurturing. I recall her rocking me, singing a lullaby to ease me back into sleep.
Those moments?
That’s what I want.
And I know Stryker will be protective, maybe ultraprotective. Any family we have together will be well taken care of.
In this moment, with his strong hands caring for me, I allow the fantasy to unfurl.
I still have some uncertainty about my personal situation being resolved. But as he asked, I’ve placed my full trust in Stryker. Even if something does go sideways in this process, I know he’ll have my back and risk his life to save mine.
I’ve even extended that trust to Inamorata and Hawkeye—the very people I’d been convinced were my enemy.
I know they’re as good as their word.
And if all goes according to plan, my name will be cleared. Their plan to protect me from Bratva forever is big and bold, so audacious it might actually work.
A few moments later, he leaves me, promising to return with my chai.
The water cools a little, to the perfect temperature for soaking, steam curling around my shoulders, the scent of lavender in the air.
My body feels loose and heavy, every muscle humming with the pleasant ache of being thoroughly claimed. I lean my head back against the porcelain rim and let my eyes drift shut, listening to the soft clink of ceramic on the counter as he moves around the kitchen.
The domestic sounds ground me in a way nothing ever has. A spoon against a pan. The low whistle of the kettle. The quiet thud of the fridge door. All of it ordinary. All of it miraculous.
The bathroom door opens without a knock. He never knocks anymore. He doesn’t have to.
I open my eyes, and there he is, filling the doorway like he was carved for it.
His black T-shirt is stretched across his chest. The sleeves are tight around biceps that flex when he shifts his weight. Tactical pants ride low on his hips, and even his boots are sexy.
He holds my favorite oversize mug in one hand, and steam rises in delicate spirals.
He crosses the tile in three silent strides and crouches beside the tub to offer me the beverage.
Our fingers brush as I take it. The ceramic is almost too hot, but I welcome the burn.
The first sip slides down my throat and spreads warmth through my chest like liquid sunlight.
Perfect. Always perfect.
But surprising me, he doesn’t leave.
