Page 49 of The Cost of Silence

Until it lands against my shoulder.

She doesn’t seem to realize she’s done it.

I stop breathing anyway.

Her weight is light, warm, unbearably soft. I can feel the way her breath fans across my collarbone. The way she unconsciously scoots closer, until the entire length of her body is pressed against my side.

My hand twitches with the urge to touch her, to run my hands over her silky skin, and make her feel good.

To pull her in.

To hold her the way my body is begging me to.

I don’t.

I sit perfectly still, staring at the screen without seeing a damn thing, fighting every instinct I have. I don’t get to want this. I don’t get to want her. Especially not when someone out there is trying to burn her life to the ground because of me.

But then… her hand slides down to my arm.

Barely a touch.

Barely anything at all.

Except it feels like everything.

Within minutes, her breathing evens out. Her body goes soft and heavy with sleep, the kind of sleep she hasn’t let herself fall into since the attack, if the shadows under her eyes are any indication.

My chest tightens.

She feels safe.

On me.

With me.

It shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

When the movie ends, I look down at her. She’s completely gone, cheek pressed to my shoulder, eyelashes brushing my shirt. She looks younger like this. Softer. Breakable in a way she’d hate me for noticing.

Carefully, so fucking carefully, I slide an arm beneath her knees, another behind her back.

She murmurs, barely waking, but doesn’t resist as I stand.

She fits against me like she was made for it.

Christ.

My ribcage feels too tight as I carry her down the hall. I’ve carried people my entire life—mafia soldiers, civilians, victims, threats, but never like this.

Never like she weighs more than my own pulse.

In her room, I lower her onto the bed, slow enough that her hair fans across the pillow. She stirs, eyelids fluttering. I pull the blanket up to her waist, resisting the insane urge to press my lips to her forehead.

I straighten, turning toward the door.

“Nico?”

Her voice is small. Sleepy. Vulnerable in a way she never lets herself be.