Page 47 of Brutal Truths

She flinches at my words and tries to remove my finger from her chin.

Adding my thumb to keep her still, I continue. “But it happened anyway. This thing between us… it’s real.”

I angle in a little closer, a low growl rumbling in my chest. “Mine.”

The word is quiet. Certain.

“Anyone who touched you without your permission…” My jaw tightens. “They don’t get to keep breathing. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”

Her eyes meet mine again, and there it is, that flicker I’ve been waiting for. Small. Fragile. That light I haven’t seen for days is back, and it hits me hard in the gut.

“Kiss me,” she whispers. “Prove it.”

“Gladly.”

I don’t rush it. I lean is slow, giving her every chance to stop me. When she doesn’t I brush my lips against hers—soft, controlled, testing.

Because she’s not the same woman she was eleven days ago, I’m not about to take anything she doesn’t give me freely. When she parts her lips and her tongue grazes along my bottom lip, I take it as permission, deepening the kiss just enough to meet her where she is.

Not pushing. Not taking. Just… there with her.

Her quiet sounds break through my control, sending a surge of heat through me I clamp down on immediately. This isn’t about me or my needs; this is all about hers.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me is the only reason I draw back. Catching the flush in her cheeks, I smirk. “Believe me now?”

With a second shrug, a glint of mischief flickers behind her gaze. “Maybe.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Wylan says with a chuckle as he talks to Izzy. “Misty mentioned that Alma would like her favorite blueberry pancakes. I can’t deny that lovely woman. Are you hungry for something besides Aiden?”

With a grumble, I step back and grab my mug. “Fuck off.”

Isabel snatches her steaming cup from under the machine, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the space as she moves toward the sugar and cream. “Your pancakes are delicious. I could be persuaded to eat a few.”

“Give me fifteen minutes to whip up a batch.” He opens the fridge. “You can wait, or I’ll call you when they’re done.”

Stepping up behind her, I place my hand lightly on her back, my fingers tracing the line of her spine. “Why don’t we finish talking while he cooks? Someplace private.”

“Is that what the kids are calling that today? Talking?” Wylan snickers. “Misty and I love talking out in the garden. Nice and quiet. A pebbled path leads you to a great spot others can’t see. In case you wanted to know.”

Picking up an apple, I throw it at his head. “Fuck off.”

Wylan catches it easily, laughing, but keeps his mouth shut.

Izzy slips past me with her mug, a quiet snicker under her breath as we head outside. The air hits, cool and damp, the kind that settles into the bones. Nothing we aren’t used to living in London.

My focus is on her. The way she moves, the way she’s starting to come back, piece by piece.

We follow the path to the garden, finding the secluded spot Wylan mentioned. Isabel takes a seat on the bench and sips her coffee while staring straight ahead.

I take a seat beside to her, slower this time, giving her time to adjust. When I rest a hand on her knee, I watch for a reaction.

There isn’t one. A small victory.

My thumb rubs over her jean-clad knee, slow, steady, trying to pull something out of her. “You ready to talk about what happened?”

“Do I have to?” Her gaze drifts skyward, and she closes her eyes, letting out a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world. “Isn’t it bad enough I relive it every time I close my eyes?”

“Did they…” The word sticks. I can’t force it out.