Page 84 of Carrick
The world returned slowly,like surfacing from deep water. First came sound, the quiet rhythm of Carrick’s breathing behind me, steady and calm. Then came touch—his chest warm against my back, his hand resting gently over my heart as if it had always belonged there. Maybe it did.
I didn’t remember falling asleep. Only drifting after the tears, after the fire that left me raw and weightless. Carrick had caught me without hesitation, without question.
Now his touch was tender. His fingers traced the length of my arm in slow, thoughtful passes. His breath stirred the space behind my ear. The air still carried the scent of ozone, sweat, and something wilder.
I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the spell.
But I wasn’t alone anymore. I couldn’t live in this hush forever. I shifted just enough to let him know I’d surfaced.
His voice found me in the quiet, warm and smoky, like the first sip of whiskey after a storm.
“There you are.”
I swallowed. “How long...?”
“A while.” His lips brushed the back of my neck. “All night, actually. I didn’t want to rush you.”
It would be too easy to stay like this, wrapped in his warmth, letting danger disguise itself as comfort. But I didn’t move. His hand slid to my wrist, fingers curling there—not to hold, just to remind me I wasn’t alone.
“I’m okay,” I said quietly, though we both knew I wasn’t. Not entirely.
“I know,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to be.”
God, the way he spoke—like he meant it. Like nothing about this scared him.
I turned in his arms, slowly, needing to see his face. He looked tired, unshaven, devastating in that too-intense way. Hair down, curling around his jaw. The kind of man a girl could fall for. Which meant I had to be careful.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “For… everything.”
His brows lifted, a flicker of mischief dancing behind the tenderness. “That’s a lot of ground. You thanking me for the toe-curling edge play or the ugly crying?”
I shot him a look. No heat in it. “You’re the worst.”
“You begged for more.”
Heat climbed up my neck. I hated how easily he unraveled me—even now, wrapped in blankets, my body still trembling from every strike, every spark, every whispered command. “You’re not exactly subtle, Carrick.”
“And you’re not exactly innocent.” He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. “But you are beautiful when you let go.”
I didn’t have a response to that. Not one that didn’t sound like a plea. Or a lie.
He sat up slowly, tugging the blanket around both of us as he leaned back against the headboard, drawing me into the space between his legs. I went, because it was easier than fighting. Because it felt good. And because he was warm, and I was tired of being cold.
Carrick reached for a bottle of water on the nightstand, unscrewed the cap, and offered it to me. I took a sip, then another, my throat raw like I’d been screaming. Maybe I had.
“Talk to me,” he said, voice softer now. “Not about Rayden. Not about running. Just you.”
I stiffened. He felt it instantly.
“Still a bad girl,” he said with a half-smile. “Thought maybe you’d be pliable after that scene.”
“You don’t get to own my insides just because you made me cry.”
His eyes darkened slightly, but not with anger. With understanding. And maybe a little disappointment. “No,” he agreed. “But I want toknowthem. That’s the difference.”
I looked away. “That’s not part of this.”
“What is part of this?”
