“For now.”
She studies me, as if she can pull the truth out of me with sheer will alone. “And after ‘now’?”
I reallydon’thave an answer for that.
Then she draws in a breath and looks away. “I hate you.”
I almost smile. “I know.”
She shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, and I know the conversation is over—for now. But her questions will keep coming, and at some point, I’ll have to decide how much truth I’m willing to give her.
I push off the wall, heading toward the door. “Get some rest.”
She doesn’t respond.
“I promise to take care of everything,” I add.To take care of you.
“I’m sure you will,” she says dryly, but there’s no fight in her voice. “Fucking control freak.” The words are said under her breath, but I hear them anyway and turn back to her.
“You think this is about control? No. This is about keeping you breathing, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”
She may be mad at the situation we are in, but eventually she will understand how much worse it could have been for both of us if we had stayed in Hallow Ridge.
As I head toward the back door to check on the solar panels, I can still feel her gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting.
It’s always been like this with her.
An unbearable pull, like gravity shifts when she’s near—like the very air bends around her.
Even now, bruised and broken, she’s fucking radiant—her defiance burning beneath the exhaustion, the pain, the chaos.
She should be terrified. Should be retreating, folding in on herself.
But she isn’t.
She meets the storm head-on, eyes fierce, chin lifted, daring the world to break her.
And God help me—I want to be the one standing beside her when it tries.
I’m ruined, completely and irrevocably, and the worst part?
I don’t want to be saved from it.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not like this. Not so fucking soon.
But maybe—just maybe—this is exactly what I needed.
6
SOME FUCKING ISLAND GETAWAY
KRUZ
I walkthe length of the pier, my hands buried deep in the oversized coat I borrowed from Ezra. It’s thick and heavy, far too big for me, the hem brushing against my thighs with every step. The fabric carries the rich, dark scent of him—woodsmoke, leather, something faintly like coffee. It lingers in the folds, wrapping around me, a quiet comfort against the bite of the wind, though I would never admit it out loud. The sleeves swallow my hands entirely, my fingers lost in the excess fabric, but I don’t bother rolling them up. The warmth is worth it.
The days have blurred together in a sluggish haze, a loop of slow recovery and restless nights. The pain in my ribs has dulled into a steady, persistent throb, no longer stealing my breath but still a reminder of everything my body has endured. The bruises, once deep and livid, have begun to fade, their angry purples and blues softening into muted shades of yellow and green. I can move without wincing now, but the exhaustion is something else entirely.
