Protect her. Love her. Keep her.
I intend to do all three until my last breath.
Chapter16
Beckett
I burst through the door of my guest apartment with George in my arms.
My chest tightens as I glance at the bruises on her wrist, and my anger spikes again.
Then I remember George's lips against mine, the way she wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer as if she couldn’t get enough. The way she whispered “yours” against my mouth.
I lower George to her feet. A sliver of moonlight gilds her hair, which tumbles wildly around her shoulders where I ran my fingers through it. Her chest rises and falls quickly, unevenly. Her blue eyes are wide and bright and alive.
I tug my shirt over my head and toe off my boots and socks. Her gaze travels down my bare chest, over the scars and tattoos, my low-slung jeans, my bare feet, as if she’s memorizing every detail.
I remain still, my face carefully blank, but inside, I’m unraveling, thinking about what could have been if I hadn’t arrived at the garage when I did. I grip the edge of the nearby table, my knuckles white, grounding myself before I lose control completely.
“You let me fight my own battle today,” she says finally, her voice quiet but steady.
“I told myself I’d never take more than you wanted to give.” The admission grates against me, honest and raw. “But when I saw him touch you?—”
Her hands rise, hovering inches from my chest, not quite touching. So close I can feel the heat radiating from her palms.
“I knew I’d kill for you, George. I’d die for you.” The confession rips open something inside me, leaving me exposed. “But I don't want to do either. I just want to be yours.”
There it is. The truth laid bare. I’ve fallen fast, hard, and completely. And I’ll never recover if she walks away.
“You already are,” she whispers. “I’ve been trying to prove myself to you. Show you I’m strong enough. Brave enough. Just… enough,” she confesses, her voice softer now but no less sure. “But all along, I just wanted you to stay.”
She’s never needed to prove a damn thing. I’m the one who’s never been good enough for her. I force myself to look straight into her eyes, making her see the truth of who I am. What I’ve always been.
“Despite what happened tonight, I’m no hero. You deserve better than me,” I tell her, my voice rough under the weight of my conscience.
She should agree. She should run. Instead, her fingers curl around my wrist, not pushing me away.
“I’m not a good man.” I repeat the words I told her that night at The Honey Pot, needing her to understand.
George slowly presses her palms against my chest—two points of heat that brand my skin. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and unguarded, as if she doesn’t see the monster, the blood on my hands, or the sins etched into my bones.
Her breath brushes my lips as she tugs me closer and says, “No, you’remyman.”
Something tight and knotted inside me finally releases, unfurling into a warmth I've never felt before. I feel alive.
The grip I’ve maintained on the table edge loosens as my hands find their true purpose, locking around her waist and dragging her against me with a roughness that should frighten her.
It doesn't. She meets me with equal force, her hands sliding up my chest to grip my shoulders, nails biting into my skin. She's as wrecked as I am and just as desperate.
The kiss is hard, messy—a claiming. My fingers dig into the soft curve of her hips, lifting her slightly, aligning our bodies until nothing exists between us but the fabric I want to tear away.
I walk her backward until her spine meets the wall, pinning her there with my hips. One hand slides down to grip her thigh, hitching it around my waist. The other cups her jaw, tilting her face to deepen the kiss, to taste more of her.
She wraps her other leg around my waist, locking me in place. Her hands slip under my shirt, palms flat against the ridged muscle of my abdomen. The contact sears through me, making me groan against her neck.
“Beckett,” she breathes when I break away to trail my lips down the column of her throat. Not a plea. A confirmation. As if she needs to say my name to make this real.
“I'm here,” I murmur against her skin, my teeth grazing the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. “I'm not going anywhere.”
