Page 280 of Wicked Brutal

Something in her expression softens. I lower the sleeve again. Then I look at her. Really look. Hair messy from sneaking across the yard. No makeup. Healing lip. My sweatshirt swallowing her. A tiny swell beneath it nobody would notice unless they knew exactly where to look. I know. I know every fucking inch of her. And suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough.

“You’re staring.”

“I like looking at you.”

“You’ve seen me before.”

Yeah. That’s the fucking problem.

I’ve seen her a thousand times. Across classrooms. At the lake. In my car. In my bed. Laughing. Pissed at me. Trying not to smile. Falling asleep against my chest. And suddenly my brain is trying to catalog every version, like five days isn’t enough time to remember all of them.

I brush my thumb over her cheek. “What did your dress look like?”

Her eyes narrow. “No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Color?”

“No.”

“Ally.”

“You’re supposed to be surprised.”

“I hate surprises.”

She smiles. And there she is. My Ally. Not Roman’s daughter. Not Tremblay’s fiancée. Not a case Arthur is building or a girl everybody is trying to rescue. Just her.

I lean forward and kiss her. Softly at first, because of her lip. Because of everything. She kisses me back, her fingers curling into my shirt. And something changes. Not desperate. Not exactly. Quieter than that. I kiss her again because I want to remember how she feels when she isn’t afraid. She touches my face like she’s doing the same thing.

Tonight isn’t going to fix Saturday. It won’t stop the plane, get Tobias out of that house, put Roman behind bars, or make Victor disappear. Tomorrow we’ll still wake up with four days left. But tonight she’s here. She chose to come here. To me. And I need one night where Victor doesn’t get to exist between us.

I pull back. “You sure?”

Ally’s eyes stay on mine. “Yes.”

I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. Then I take her hand and lead her toward the bedroom.

I don’t rush it. The guest house is quiet except for our footsteps and the faint tick of the clock I already hate. Ally follows me without asking where. She already knows. Tonight isn’t a fight. It isn’t making up from one, either. It’s the last version of us that still has five days on the calendar and a locked door and no one watching.

I stop at the foot of the bed and turn her toward me. “Hey.”

I kiss her first. Soft because of her lip. Slow because I need to. She tastes like toothpaste and cold air and the walk across the yard. Her hands come up under my shirt and rest on my sides, warm, and I have to close my eyes for a second just to stay here.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her mouth. “Just this. Just us.”

“Okay.”

I kiss her again, longer. My hands stay on her waist over the sweatshirt — my sweatshirt — thumbs moving in small circles like I can calm both of us that way. When I finally reach for the hem, I wait until she nods.

I draw it up carefully, over the bruises I can’t see yet and the small swell I can feel. She lifts her arms. The sweatshirt hits the chair. She’s in a thin tank underneath, and I go still looking at her.

“You’re so pretty,” I say, and it comes out quieter than I mean it to. “Every time. I forget how to breathe for a second.”

Color hits her cheeks. “Ryan.”