Page 41 of Desperate People

Because there’s darkness in me, too.

And somehow, in his orbit, it doesn’t feel like something to be ashamed of.

It feels like armor.

Like finally being seen.

Bingo.

I should feel hunted. Violated.

Maybe I do, a little.

But mostly?

I feel exposed. Seen.

And—God help me—I feel safe. With him. Only him.

“Why?” I ask, needing to hear him say it.

He exhales hard through his nose.

“I couldn’t stay away. You’re in my head. And I—” His jaw works. “I needed to make sure you were safe.”

I stare at him.

He’s not wearing a suit.

Not cleaned up like he is in the office.

Tonight, he looks like the man I first met.

The one with mismatched eyes and knuckles that look like they’ve kissed pavement.

The one who sees through the polish and the press photos.

“You could’ve just told me,” I say softly.

“Yeah, well. I’ve got a habit of fucking things up when I open my mouth.”

I don’t argue.

Because I remember how it felt when he said no.

When I offered myself, heart in my hands, and he looked away like I wasn’t worth the fall.

But this version of Balor—the one seething behind the wheel, the one who answered my call like it might’ve been life or death—he’s not indifferent.

He’s possessive.

And maybe—maybe I don’t hate that.

I slowly relax my grip on my bag. My hands fall to my lap, fingers no longer clenched like I’m bracing for impact.

I glance out the window, watching the city lights smear across the glass like streaks of gold and shadow.

But this time, it’s different.

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