Page 102 of Only Mine
He gets out without a word, then circles to unbuckle Ivy. I hear the soft click of the harness, her sleepy whine as he liftsher. She wraps her arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder, and I can’t help but think how safe she must feel there.
Saint waits for me to get out. I do, the blanket slipping from my lap, and he grabs it before it can hit the ground. He doesn’t hand it back, just drapes it over my shoulders, his hands lingering for a second too long. The heat of him seeps through the fabric, and I’m suddenly aware that my heart has doubled its pace.
We walk up the steps together, Ivy heavy in his arms, her breathing slow and even. I follow them inside, the door closing softly behind me.
Inside, Saint moves with efficiency. He carries Ivy to her room, tucking her in with a ritual that’s all muscle and gentleness. I hover in the entryway, feeling like a ghost in my own skin, until he reappears and jerks his chin toward the kitchen.
“Sit,” he says, and it’s less a command than a fact of nature.
I obey, sliding onto a barstool at the island while he unpacks the take-out containers.
The kitchen is warm, the overhead light haloing Saint’s head and making him look less like a villain and more like someone who could save you from one.
He lines up the boxes, then glances at me, his gaze so sharp it nearly slices through the air. “You need to eat.”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
He sets a plate in front of me and watches, arms folded across his chest, until I pick up a fork and take a bite.
The food is excellent, but my stomach is a clenched fist. Saint doesn’t eat, just leans against the counter, eyes pinned to my face. I swallow a mouthful of pasta, then push the plate away. “You’re staring.”
He doesn’t look away. “You’re still shaking.”
“Am not,” I say, but the fork wobbles in my grip. “But I am tired. Is the bed in the guesthouse still available?”
“You’re not staying in the guesthouse.”
“Saint—”
“You’re not. I don’t care if you have a hundred locks and a gun taped under the mattress. I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you’re safe.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him that nothing short of a meteor strike could keep me from my own bed, that I’m not some damsel for him to rescue. But I remember the way my body folded in on itself in the restaurant bathroom. Remember the taste of panic, the helplessness. And I’m so tired.
“Fine,” I say, pushing the plate away. “I’ll sleep on your couch.”
Saint’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’ll sleep in my bed.”
“You can’t decide that for me.”
He leans in, hands braced on the edge of the counter. “I can, and I am. You want a vote? Fine. It’s two against one. Ivy would chain you to the bed if I let her.”
I can’t help it. A laugh escapes, fragile but real.
“I’ll take the couch,” he says, but the arrogance in his eyes tells me he’s lying.
The air between us contracts to a single, sparking thread. He moves to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and slides it across the island.
I take a sip, cold water sluicing through the heat in my chest. Saint’s eyes track the movement.
He circles the island, coming to stand directly across from me.
He’s so close. The space between us is measured inheartbeats, not inches. If I leaned forward, my forehead would brush the column of his throat. I want to press my face there, to disappear into the scent of him and let the world fall away.
Instead, I say, “I’m fine.”
Saint’s gaze drags up, pinning me. “You’re not.”
