Page 153 of Desperate People

We survived this.

More than that?

We burned everything in our path to get here.

The man who hunted me is gone.

The blood has dried.

The screaming has finally stopped.

But the fire?

It’s still in us.

In the background, I hear my father and uncles and cousins—Volkov men with dark eyes and darker secrets—working in grim, efficient silence to erase what happened.

To wipe the location clean.

To dismantle the horror that lived in these walls.

And I don’t give a damn about any of it.

Because everything I want is in my arms.

Everything I need is clutching me like he’ll never let go.

“I’m okay,” I whisper again and again, my voice hoarse but steady.

Balor doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t stop holding me.

But his grip softens—just barely.

His breath starts to even out against my cheek.

Like he believes me.

Like he’s starting to believe this nightmare is finally over.

That I’m still here.

Still his.

Still breathing.

I press my lips to his throat. “I’m here, Balor.”

He groans like it hurts, burying his face in my hair, and I feel the tremble go through him.

This man, this protector, this criminal genius who walked through hell to save me—he's shaking.

“I’m okay,” I say again, louder this time, like I can pull the truth into his bloodstream and anchor him back to earth.

And when he lifts his face to mine—those mismatched eyes wild with love, fury, and disbelief—I know he finally accepts it.

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