Page 46 of Sizzling Desire

The sound of the shower running upstairs drags me back to the present. She’s here. She’s safe, and yet, I can’t make myself relax. I stay up, listening. Waiting.

Even after the water shuts off, even after the house fallssilent, I stay put, letting the minutes tick by. When the quiet stretches too long, something in my gut tightens.

I push up from the couch and make my way upstairs, stopping outside her door. It’s cracked just enough for me to see inside, to make sure she’s okay.

But she’s not.

She’s curled up on the bed, wearing one of my old t-shirts that hangs off her frame, her knees drawn to her chest. And she’s crying. Silent, body-shaking sobs, her shoulders trembling, her fingers clutching at the blanket like it’s keeping her from falling apart.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I move.

Crossing the room, I ease onto the bed beside her, not saying a word. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to push me away when I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her against my chest.

She goes willingly.

My hand slides up her back, fingers brushing through damp strands of her hair as I hold her, as I breathe her in, as I let her feel me—solid, warm, protected…here.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur against the crown of her head.

A broken sound leaves her throat, something between a sob and a sigh, and she buries her face against me, her fingers fisting my shirt.

And just like that, I know.

I’m never letting her go.

This is where she belongs. Right here. With me.

Chapter 14

Grace

Iwake up alone.

For a second, I don’t know where I am. The room is unfamiliar—larger than mine, with navy walls and dark wood furniture. The sheets are soft, but they don’t smell like me. They smell like him—Kane’s scent, all masculine and warm, threaded with something dangerously addictive.

Then it hits me.

The fire. My apartment. The moment Kane pulled me against him and held me like he wasn’t going to let go.

I groan, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling. I hate this. Hate that I’m here, hate that I lost everything, hate that I let him see me break. Hate that I haven’t told him about the peanut inside me.

Most of all? I hate that a part of me feels safe in his house, in his arms.

With a frustrated sigh, I shove the blanket off and sit up. My body protests—sore from exhaustion, from stress—but I force myself to move. I need to get my head on straight. Figure out my next move.

Then I smell it.

Bacon. Coffee. Somethingbuttery.

My stomach clenches hard, and I barely make it to the bathroom before I throw up.

I grip the sink, breathing heavily as the nausea lingers. Stupid morning sickness. Stupid hormones. Stupid Kane for cooking and making my body betray me.

After splashing cold water on my face and brushing my teeth with supplies I find in the drawer, I pull my hair into a messy bun and force myself downstairs. The scent of food is stronger, and my stomach lurches again in warning. I move cautiously, pausing at the bottom of the stairs when I hear his voice.

Kane’s on the phone.

“She’s staying here. I don’t give a damn what she says.” His voice is low, gruff, the kind of tone that makes men listen and women shiver. “Yeah, Hudson, I know her. She’s going to fight me on it. It doesn’t matter. She’s not going anywhere.”

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