Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
She nods once like that answer makes sense in her bones.
When I’m satisfied, I return to the living room. “All clear,” I say.
Salem exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the SUV stopped. She shifts her weight, suddenly looking small in the oversized hoodie, exhaustion pulling at her posture.
I grab the duffel and carry it down for her anyway because I’m apparently incapable of not doing things. I push open the bedroom door— and stop.
Because there’s one bed.
Not two.
Not a pull-out.
One single bed in the center of the room with clean sheets and a blanket folded at the foot. I stand there for a beat, staring at it like it’s personally offended me. Behind me, Salem peers around my shoulder.
“Oh,” she says. The word is quiet. Not flirty. Not teasing. Just… tired.
I clear my throat. “You get the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Salem’s gaze stays on the bed, then slides to me. “I’m not—” She swallows. “I’m not trying to make this weird.”
“I’m not either,” I say. “It’s not weird.”
It’s weird.
It’s not weird because of sex.
It’s weird because of her. Because my body keeps reacting like it recognizes her, like it wants to fold around her and keep her there. Like it wants to be the safe place, not just lead her to one.
I step aside so she can enter.
She moves slowly, like her body is finally letting the crash hit. “I’m going to shower,” she says, voice small and stubborn at once. “If that’s okay.”
“It’s your house,” I say, then correct myself because it sounds wrong. “It’s yours for now.”
She nods and goes to the attached bathroom with the duffel. The door shuts softly.
I stand in the quiet bedroom for a moment, listening to the faint sound of water pipes shifting, Salem moving around. Then I force myself out.
Couch. Mission. Professional.
In the living room, I collect the leftover food bag from Moonlight Munchies and head to the kitchen to dispose of it. The pink neon sign is long gone, but the memory isn’t. I open the bag, intending to toss wrappers, and— something pink and glossy stares back at me.
Ah, yes. The ‘bonus’ item. The dildo that came with the meal.
I hold it up, squinting at the label.
Super sized.
I stare at the dildo like it might bite me.
My shoulders shake. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I mutter to the empty kitchen. I don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed. Then I do the only sane thing a man can do when holding a surprise sex toy in a safehouse kitchen at three in the morning: I tuck it into a drawer. Deep in a drawer. The kind of drawer you forget exists until you’re looking for a single battery and find something that changes you.
I shut it. I lean back against the counter and exhale. This is my life now.
The shower turns off. A few minutes pass. Salem emerges in the doorway wearing black lounge pants and a soft shirt from Juno’s bag, her hair damp, face scrubbed clean. She looks younger like this. And more tired. Her eyes sweep the living room like she’s mapping exits even while she’s walking toward sleep.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m exhausted.”
“Good,” I say gently. “Sleep.”
Her mouth tightens. “You’re sure you’re fine on the couch?”
“Yep,” I lie.
She watches me a beat longer, then turns back toward the bedroom. “Night, Ozzy,” she says quietly.
“Night, Salem.”
She disappears into the room. The door closes. And the house settles into stillness again.
I pull my phone out, check the secure channel—one quick message to Rae that we arrived. One to Arrow: Rainmaker secure. She’s in bed. I’m on couch.
Arrow replies immediately: Don’t be stupid.
I snort. No promises.
I kick off my boots, stretch out on the couch, and stare at the ceiling. My mind refuses to shut off. It replays her question. The tone of it. The bravery behind it. The curiosity that felt like reclamation. Sex, for her, probably isn’t simple. For her, it might be a battlefield. And she asked anyway. Not because she wanted a hook-up. Because she wanted control back.
I close my eyes. I try to sleep. I almost do. Then I hear it. A small sound from down the hallway. A strangled, half-choked breath. Then another. The bed creaks. A muffled word—more like a plea than a name.
I sit up instantly, heart slamming. I’m down the hall in two seconds, the door already open, my feet silent on the wood. Salem is thrashing lightly in the bed, brow furrowed, hair stuck to her cheek, arms tightening like she’s trying to push something away.
“No—” she whispers, broken. “Don’t—”
My chest goes cold. I step closer. “Salem,” I say softly.
She doesn’t wake. Her breathing turns ragged, panicked, like she’s trapped in it.
I don’t hesitate. I climb onto the edge of the bed and gather her carefully, easing her into my arms like she’s something fragile and fierce at the same time. “Hey,” I murmur into her hair. “You’re safe. You’re here. It’s Ozzy. You’re not there.”