Page 152 of Desperate People

And then?

He turns.

Back to me.

Blood spatter covers his clothes and hands. His chest heaves with exertion and he drops to his knees like the world just caved in beneath him.

His voice is choked. His face is pale.

Those deadly hands hang limp at his sides—hands that just murdered a man to save me.

“Balor,” I whimper, already pushing against my father’s hold.

He shakes his head, refusing to meet my eyes.

There’s something fractured in him.

Something broken.

“I don’t, I don’t deserve you,” he says hoarsely, like every word hurts.

But I don’t care.

I don’t care about blood or guilt or morality or any of it.

And if that makes me just as crazy, just as unhinged as him?

So be it.

I’d consider myself lucky to be classified as such.

But the real bottom line is this.

I just want him.

I squeeze my father’s hand.

Hard.

Then I run.

Straight to my husband.

I throw myself into him and he catches me like I always knew he would.

“Shhh, don’t you ever say that again,” I whisper. “You came for me. You found me. You saved me.”

Tears are streaming down my face, mixing with blood and sweat and fear, but none of it matters.

Because I’m here.

He’s here.

And this man—my husband, my monster, my salvation—will never let me go.

“I love you so fucking much,” I say against his lips.

And when I kiss him, hard, desperate, tasting salt and metal and sorrow—I know without a doubt, there isn’t anything we can’t do.

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