Page 44 of Desperate People

I pull into the attached garage of the main house and kill the engine.

Silence settles over us like a shroud.

She doesn’t move.

She’s curled in the passenger seat, head tilted slightly toward the window, lips parted with sleep.

Her purse sits like a shield in her lap, clutched tight in fingers that probably still remember the tremble of fear.

Her lashes flutter, but she’s not awake.

Not really.

Just breathing. Just here.

Thank fuck.

Because tonight? I almost lost her.

I sit there for a beat too long, just watching her. My heart still racing from the aftershocks. Fury still thrumming through my veins like poison.

She has no idea what that place did to me. What he did. How close I am to finding that piece of shit and removing his skin layer by layer in a way that would never be forgotten.

But I didn’t leave. I couldn’t.

Because she needed me more.

And nothing—no revenge, no bloodlust—is more important than her.

Getting her here, getting her safe, is tantamount to everything else.

I step out of the car and come around to her side.

Quiet. Careful.

Like any sudden movement might startle her back into the nightmare we just pulled her from.

Her lashes flick open as I open the door.

Those blue eyes hit me like they always do—like a bullet straight to the fucking chest.

“Balor,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “I can walk.”

“Don’t care.” My voice comes out rough, more growl than words.

Because I don’t.

This isn’t about her legs. It’s not about convenience or comfort.

It’s about me. About the part of me that can’t bear to see her touch the ground after the way that sick fuck defiled her space. After what he left for her.

I slide my arms under her and lift her out like she’s mine to carry.

Because she is.

And yeah—she’s not light.

She’s not some delicate little doll you set on a shelf.

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