Page 225 of Let Me In

Barefoot. No coat. Her hair still tangled from sleep. No dogs beside her. Nothing but panic and instinct driving her toward the treeline.

“Emilia.”

She flinches. Pauses—just long enough to make my chest clench. Her shoulders tense like she might look back, might change her mind. But she doesn’t turn. But she doesn’t.

She sprints harder.

And I go.

The laundry drops. My boots hit the grass, silent and fast. She’s got a head start, but not much—and I know these woods better than she does. I cut left. Toward the back trail. Fast. Hard.I can hear her breathing now, ragged and shallow, chest heaving like she’s choking on air.

She’s nearly at the edge of the trees when I break through the clearing—dead ahead of her.

Her eyes go wide. Panic. Pain.

She pivots, wild and desperate—but I’m already there. Already reaching.

She twists. Dodges.

“Move,” she gasps, tears already brimming, breaking. “Please—just let me—”

I don’t.

Ican’t.

She shoves at my chest, not hard, not enough to hurt—but it lands like a flashback. Like every moment I couldn’t reach her, couldn’t stop the damage, condensed into this breath. It’s not the force that breaks me—it’s the fear. The glimpse of losing her again. And it shatters something primal inside me.

My hand catches her wrist mid-lunge, and I pull her to me like gravity. Like claiming. My other arm wraps around her waist—tight, unyielding. Her back hits my chest with force, and I lock my arms like steel across her front, anchoring her to me. The contrast in our size swallows her, making her feel as small as she is precious.

She releases a wordless shout—not loud, not for help, but from the chaos inside her, and thrashes once.

But I don’t let go. I hold. Not gentle, not this time.

This isn’t for comfort.

This is for containment.

She’s mine.

And she doesn’t run from me.

“Stop,” I bite, my voice right against her ear. Rough. Commanding. “You don’t disappear, little one. Not from me.”

She fights. Harder this time. Her heel scrapes down my shin, but it doesn’t even hurt. Her feet are bare, but it still feels like a sharp line of panic made flesh. Her breath is ragged, torn from her throat like it’s burning. She claws at my arm—not to harm, but to escape, wild and desperate.

Twists in my arms like her skin’s on fire. Like touch itself is betrayal.

I don't give an inch.

I shift my grip higher, one hand over her heart, the other gripping her hip. Possessive. Absolute.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Her breathing shatters. Her body jerks again, in one final surge of panic.

“I have to. He’s selling it. He…” She sobs the words like they’re being torn out of her throat.

And that’s it. That’s the last straw.

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