Page 230 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"What happened tonight."

I searched for the right words.

"I've spent years convincing myself I knew what intimacy was, fuck was I wrong."

Her eyes softened.

"You make me forget every rule I've ever lived by. You make me lose control. You make me feel things I buried a long time ago."

I let out a slow breath.

"So, no. It isn't always like that. It never was with anyone else."

Silence settled between us. She searched my face as if trying to decide whether she believed me. Finally, she whispered,

"So... it's me?"

"It's you. Only you."

The words left my mouth before I could question them. There wasn't any point pretending anymore. She smiled then, not the mischievous smile she wore when she was trying to irritate me or the sarcastic one, she used to hide behind.

This one was quiet. Content. She inched closer until her forehead rested beneath my chin. I wrapped an arm around her carefully, mindful of every bruise hidden beneath her skin.

"You know," she murmured sleepily, "you're getting dangerously good at this feeling thing."

"I wouldn't go that far. We’ll get up soon baby. I just need to hold you some more."

She sighed against me, tension slowly moving from her body as she relaxed completely.

“Okay, Honey. I’m just going to be here.”

Later that night, after I'd showered us both, Seraphina never stirred. She slept through every gentle touch, every careful movement as I dried her, dressed the cuts I'd missed, and carried her back to bed. I settled beneath the blankets, drawing her against my chest, holding her there like letting go wasn't an option.

And for the first time in years...

Sleep didn't feel like another battle waiting to happen.

It felt like coming home.

Elias

The pale light before dawn slipped through the gaps in the blinds, laying long bars of silver across the bedroom floor. My eyes opened automatically, years of habit dragging me awake before the sun had even considered rising. Normally, my hand would've reached for the Glock on the nightstand before I remembered where I was.

It didn't.

Instead, it rested against the warm curve of Seraphina's waist.

She was tangled around me as though she'd spent her entire life sleeping there. One leg draped lazily over mine beneath the blankets, one hand fisted into the fabric of my shirt over my ribs. Her face was buried against my throat, her slow breaths ghosting across my skin with every quiet exhale.

I stayed perfectly still. Crime scenes taught you to notice details before emotions. It was instinct. The freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose. A stubborn curl caught between her lips. The tiny wrinkle between her brows that disappeared only when she truly slept. Then my eyes drifted lower.

The bruises. Faded now. Purple gave way to yellow around her ribs and hip where Collins' hands had left their mark. The cuts I'd cleaned the night before had been stitched and bandaged, but I could still see the angry skin around them.

Something ugly shifted beneath my ribs. I'd seen bodies ripped apart. Children. Victims whose names I'd spent months trying to give back to them. Those things haunted me but somehow… These bruises unsettled me more because they belonged to her.

Slowly, I lifted my hand and tucked a loose curl behind her ear, my knuckles brushing the warmth of her cheek. She stirred.

"Elias..."