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)
Her body jolts. Her eyes fly open. For a second, she’s not seeing me. She’s seeing whatever nightmare she just crawled out of. Her hands shove at my chest, weak and frantic. Then she recognizes me. Ozzy. The room. The dim light.
Her breath catches, and her face crumples for one raw second. “I—” she whispers, voice shaking. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” I say immediately, holding her steady. “Don’t apologize.”
She swallows hard, eyes wet, staring at the wall like it might swallow her. “I can’t—” She inhales sharply. “I can’t do that again. Not alone. I can’t—”
I smooth my hand over her hair carefully, slow, grounding. “You’re not alone,” I say.
Her gaze flicks to mine. And the way she looks at me—like I’m a lifeline she hates needing—nearly splits me in half. “Ozzy,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Will you—” Her throat bobs. “Will you sleep in here? With me? I’m… I’m scared.”
My entire body stills. Not because I don’t want to. Because I want to too much. And because the moment I agree, everything gets more dangerous. Not for the mission. For me. For the parts of me I keep locked down because wanting is a liability.
I keep my voice steady. “I can.”
Relief floods her face so fast it’s painful.
“But,” I add, because I need her to know the rules, “I’m not going to take advantage of you. I’m not going to touch you unless you want me to.”
Salem’s eyes soften. “That’s not why I want you here.”
I hold her gaze.
“I want you here because… I can breathe when you’re close,” she admits, and the honesty of it makes my throat go tight.
“Okay,” I say, voice low. “Then I’m here.” I shift carefully, sliding under the blanket beside her without jostling her. She turns toward me immediately, pressing into my side like she’s been starving for warmth as much as food. I wrap an arm around her, firm, protective—no wandering hands, no pressure—just a wall.
Salem’s fingers clutch my shirt. Her breathing slows. But she still trembles.
I press my mouth to the top of her head—barely a touch, more promise than kiss. “You’re safe,” I whisper again. “I’ve got you.”
Her voice is tiny when she answers. “Don’t leave.”
My chest aches. “I won’t,” I say. And I mean it. Even if it wrecks me. Even if I’m already in too deep.
Salem’s eyes flutter closed again, exhaustion dragging her under. I stay awake, listening to her breathe. Rainmaker is quiet. The hills outside are dark. The world is still dangerous. But here, in this room, with her curled against me like she belongs—
I make myself a vow I don’t say out loud. They stole her. They hurt her. They tried to turn her into a thing. And if they come for her again… they’re going to learn what “hurt” really means.
SEVEN
SALEM
I wake up to the smell of clean sheets, cedar, and him.
Ozzy.
He's not in the bed anymore, thank God, because if I opened my eyes and found my arms still wrapped around the man I met less than twenty-four hours ago, I might actually burst into flames. But his warmth is everywhere—on the pillow, on my skin, in the ghost of his arm around my waist when the nightmares tried to claw me back into that dark place. My heart stutters just remembering how I reached for him in the dark like my body already decided he was safe.
I stare at the ceiling, blinking slowly. Last night really happened. I asked him to stay. I admitted I was scared. Worst of all, I clung to him like some fragile thing that might shatter without his heartbeat against my ear.
I am not fragile.
I am Salem Bloom. I have survived things that would break most people. I have turned a clipboard into a weapon. I have eaten an egg sandwich like it was the last sacred thing on earth. I have looked men with guns in the eye and thought, No, you're the one who should be afraid.
And yet the second the nightmare grabbed me by the throat, my hands found Ozzy like they knew exactly where safety lived. That's what burns. Not the fear. The need.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face with both hands, then swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet touch cool wood, and a small, stupid burst of satisfaction hits me: I’m safe.
The house is quiet in that heavy, living way—like Rainmaker is holding its breath right along with me. From down the hall, water runs. The shower’s running. Ozzy. My stomach does an obnoxious flip.
I stand and pad toward the kitchen, mostly to put physical distance between me and the bed where I did something mortifying like ask for comfort.
Morning light spills through big windows, soft and golden, painting the trees and rolling hills outside. The kitchen is stocked like someone prepared for the apocalypse and then invited friends over: cabinets bursting, pantry full, fridge humming with quiet abundance.