The first month here was hell. My body healed faster than my mind—bruises fading while the memories remained vivid and raw. I would flinch when he moved too quickly. Panic when he touched me unexpectedly. Wake up fighting invisible hands around my throat.
But Soren never wavered. Never pushed. Never made me feel like I was broken. Even when I screamed that I was. Even when I threw a coffee mug at his head that second week because he accidentally touched my shoulder while I was cooking.
Presley came down from Upland after that incident. I was still shaking when she arrived, certain Soren would finally give up on me. Instead, he'd called in reinforcements—V's wife—a therapist who knew our world without judgment.
“Trauma doesn't heal in a straight line,” she told me during those first sessions at our kitchen table, the ocean a constant backdrop through the windows. “Some days you'll feel stronger, and others you'll feel like you're right back in that room with him.”
She was right. The nightmares come less frequently now, but they still come. Last week, I woke up convinced Terrance was standing at the foot of our bed. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move as the phantom loomed over me. Soren talked me through it, his voice a lifeline pulling me back to reality.
The bedroom door creaks open, and Soren steps in with two steaming mugs. His hair is still damp from a shower, curlingslightly at the ends. Morning light glints off the tattoos covering his chest and arms—inked stories I’ve traced again and again, memorizing every line with my fingertips.
“Morning, beautiful,” he says, placing my coffee on the nightstand. “Thought you might need this.”
I smile, accepting the mug with both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “You're getting better at this. It's actually drinkable now.”
He chuckles, settling beside me on the edge of the bed. “High praise from the coffee snob.”
“I have standards,” I protest, taking another sip. “Not my fault that you used to drink the sludge the club called coffee.”
These small moments still surprise me—the easy banter, the casual intimacy. Three months ago, I couldn't imagine laughing about anything, let alone something as mundane as coffee. But Soren has this way of making the ordinary feel precious.
I watch him over the rim of my mug, studying the way sunlight plays across his features. The bruises have long since faded, but I still catch him favoring his left leg sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking. The bullet wound healed clean, however, the memory remains etched in both our bodies.
“You're staring,” he says without looking up from his coffee.
“Just appreciating the view.”
His smile is soft, private. This is pure Soren, and I'm still learning all the differences between the man and the road captain.
“What's on your agenda today?” he asks, his thumb tracing idle patterns on my knee.
“Not much,” I reply, setting my mug down. “Maybe a walk on the beach later. I promised Minny I'd call her this afternoon.”
The simplicity of my plans still feels strange sometimes. For years under Terrance's control, every minute was accounted for, every decision scrutinized. Now, freedom stretches beforeme like the endless horizon outside our window—beautiful but occasionally overwhelming.
A blur of black fur comes crashing through the doorway, leaping onto the bed with enough force to slosh coffee over the rim of my mug. Shadow lands between us with a softwhump, his massive body creating a furry barrier as he settles himself directly in the space where Soren was about to sit.
“Jesus Christ,” Soren mutters, barely saving his coffee from spilling. “Every damn morning.”
I can't help but laugh as he fixes his amber eyes on me, then shifts to Soren with what can only be described as feline possessiveness. He nudges his head under my free hand, demanding attention.
“Someone's jealous,” I say, obliging him to scratch behind his ears.
“Someone's a pain in my ass,” Soren counters. He reaches out to pet Shadow, who tolerates the touch for approximately three seconds before shifting his body to block Soren's access to me.
“He's protective,” I say, defending my furry bodyguard.
“He’s interfering with my plans for you.”
“Plans?” I quirk an eyebrow. “What kind of plans involve cat-blocking our feline overlord?”
Soren's lips curve into a slow smile that sends warmth pooling in my belly. “Bringing you coffee was just the first step in my master plan to keep you in this bed all day.”
My breath catches. “Tell me more about this plan.”
“It involves significantly less clothing,” he murmurs, setting his mug aside. “And absolutely no interruptions.” He gives Shadow a pointed look, which the cat completely ignores.
Something flutters in my chest—anticipation mixed with the lingering tendrils of fear that still surface occasionally. For weeks after we arrived here, Soren had been so careful withme, keeping a respectful distance, never pushing for more than I could give. He'd taken intimacy completely off the table, focusing instead on helping me feel safe again.
