He slapped his palm inside the closet on his way by, and the light went off, soon replaced by the yellow glow from the bathroom. He closed the door, but not all the way, and her heart beat out the seconds while she listened to the sounds he made. Pee dropping. Toilet flushing. Drawers opening. Water running. Electric toothbrush whirring.
He was getting ready for bed, the way he always did. Normal. Routine.
When he finished, he wasted no time in coming back to her. “Are you sleeping in the sweatshirt?”
She nodded.
“You won’t be too warm?”
She lied again and shook her head. She’d seen his reaction to her sister’s tattoos, and she had no intention of letting Maya come between them. Tonight, she wanted Jay all to herself. No memories of her twin anywhere near them.
“Okay, slide over.” He hitched his chin, and nervousness making her skin tingle, she scooched her ass into the middle of the bed while he removed his sling.
She settled on her side, cheek on the pillow, and watched him in awe. A stranger, but not a stranger. Familiar, yet different. The same, and somehow still more. Physically older, his body held more weight, his muscles more bulk, his chest more hair, and she wondered what it’d feel like to run her hands over his skin.
Would they remember the dips and valleys? The marks and the scars?
God, he was beautiful.
The sound of ripping Velcro, raw and ragged, shredded through the air, resisting and clinging, then giving way as if something vital had been torn apart. A painful wound violently opened, leaving behind jagged edges and serrated skin.
She knew the feeling.
He tossed the fabric onto the table, reached for the lamp, and plunged the room into darkness. His image burned into her retinas; she could see him clear as day as he eased himself down beside her.
He lay on his side, facing her, but not touching. “This okay?” he asked, and she felt his breath on her lips.
“Yes,” she replied. With Jay next to her, the bed turned into a quiet refuge, a place where the chaos of the world softened into stillness, and in its embrace, she found the space to breathe. “Can I touch you?”
“Always.” He found her hand under the covers and brought it to his face, kissing her palm before pressing it to his cheek.
Her fingers trembled. “I missed you,” she whispered, letting the truth rest between them. A seed nestled beneath the soil. Planted. Warm. Dark. Safe. His presence comfort enough, she didn’t need more.
“I missed you too.” He scooped her around the middle, pulling her closer, and with his arm a possessive weight around her waist, she felt whole again. A reminder that even in the absence of light, she still existed—not lost in darkness—but held in its shadows. A living, breathing human being.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
For the first time in a long time, Jay woke with peace in his heart as the morning light spilled through the bedroom window. Beside him, Becca slept on, her silky black hair a messy halo against the pillow, her breathing light and easy.
Forever had passed since he’d last seen her, and now here she was, sleeping inches away, the two of them wrapped around each other like they’d never been apart. His shoulder sore, he shifted carefully, not wanting to wake her.
So much had gone unsaid between them last night, nervousness and fatigue keeping them from speaking about anything too deep. Didn’t matter. They had each other. And they had time. How much? Who knew? But for now, it was the two of them, alone in his bed together.
Happy didn’t begin to describe how he felt.
He lifted his arm, and with difficulty, he brushed her hair away from her face. God, she was gorgeous. At some point, her body temperature had spiked too high, and she’d removed his sweatshirt. It lay discarded on top of the covers, draped over her legs like it couldn’t bear to be separated from her any more than he could.
Her bruised skin drew his attention, and he let his eyes wander from her cheek to the cut on her lip to the fingerprints circling her neck. Fucking Dmitriev. Yeah, Jay felt no remorse over shooting the bastard.
His only regret…
He’d done it in front of Becca. She’d seen too much violence in her lifetime. Had been its victim far too often. Never again. So long as he lived and breathed, no other human being would get the chance to harm her.
Not physically. Not mentally.
His gaze drifted to the tattoos covering her bare arm. From shoulder to wrist, a wild garden grew. He didn’t hate it. On Becca, it was artful decoration—on Maya—a threat. His initial reaction had been a trauma response, nothing more.
The inked skin a reminder of the woman who’d drugged him, raped him, mutilated him.
