Page 55 of Welded Defender
I close my eyes and let the sound of the wind wash over us. For tonight, this is enough—his heartbeat, the warmth of his arms, the shelter of this moment.
But just as sleep begins to pull me under, I hear Brett’s words echoing in my mind: “Remember this face; it will be the last one you see.”
CHAPTER 29
Marcy
Iwake with the weight of someone else’s heartbeat beneath my ear. Landon’s arm lies heavy around my waist, more a band of heat than a hold. His chest lifts my cheek with each breath—five seconds up, seven down. Stubble scrapes my temple when he shifts. I breathe in musk and cedar, and something sharp like motor oil or metal shavings that clings to his skin no matter how much he scrubs it. For one dizzy, dangerous second, I let myself believe this is what safe feels like.
I want to burrow in the blankets and stay in Landon’s arms like this forever. But then the memories crash back. The way Brett was so sure of himself—so angry. His words to Landon are forever etched in my mind.
I press my lips together to stop them from trembling. It doesn’t help.
Landon shifts beneath me, his body accommodating mine without waking. His palm drifts from my ribs to my hip, calluses catching slightly on the thin cotton of my shirt. The gentleness in that unconscious touch makes my throat ache. I tilt my head back to study him. The morning light softens the angles of his sleeping face. No tension in his jaw now, no vigilance. His dark lashes rest against cheeks flushed with sleep, and that little linethat usually sits between his eyebrows—the one that deepens when he’s fixing something broken—has vanished completely.
I want to touch him. It’s a stupid want, a greedy one, but I want to trace the warm curve of his shoulder, commit to memory the way his mouth softens when he’s not guarding it. My fingers lift of their own accord, hover a breath from his stubbled jaw, then curl into a fist that I press against my sternum. My heartbeat drums against my knuckles, too fast, too loud.
His eyes open slowly, the green in them catching morning light like moss in a stream. The arm around me tightens just enough to pull me a half-inch closer.
“Morning,” he mumbles, each syllable dragging rough against his throat.
“Morning.” The word escapes as barely a breath.
He blinks, sleep clearing from his gaze. One corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile.
“Sleep okay?”
I start to nod, to lie, but my breath catches. “No.” My shoulders sag. I focus on a point just past his collarbone. “I kept seeing his face every time I closed my eyes.”
“It’s going to be okay,” he says softly. His thumb traces a half-moon arc across my hip, then stops. The cotton of my shirt snags on his callus. I nod, my throat too tight for words. His eyes search mine, green flecked with amber in the morning light. The pipes groan downstairs. A truck door slams somewhere on the street. Sunlight creeps across the floorboards, stealing the darkness inch by inch. I press my cheek against his chest, counting his heartbeats, memorizing the rhythm. “I should head down,” he murmurs, lips brushing my hair. “Last time I left Wes alone, he nearly sent someone home with the wrong car.”
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere I thought had gone dry. “He would.” His fingers find my shoulder, squeeze once.
“Nova promised to bring coffee and pastries today. I’ll make sure no one steals yours.”
“Thanks,” I say, when what I want to say is, don’t leave yet.
He presses his mouth to my hairline. “See you down there?”
I nod.
He sits up, careful not to jostle me, and pulls on his jeans, his flannel. He scrubs a hand through his hair, grabs his boots, and hesitates at the door. His eyes find mine. Something in them is so steady I could lean my whole weight against it.
“Call me if you need me...” A pause, then a wink. “Or even if you don’t need me.”
My chest tightens. “Okay,” I whisper, the word threatening to crack.
The door clicks shut. His footsteps fade—thirteen steps down, then silence.
I stare at the ceiling. The stripe of light across the far wall looks like a freshly plowed road. It makes my whole body go cold.
Remember this face. It’ll be the last thing you see.
Landon didn’t flinch when Brett said it. Men say all kinds of stupid things when they’re puffed up with anger and humiliation—I know Landon knows that. But Brett never bluffs. He escalates. He narrows his world down to one thing and doesn’t let go until it’s broken. He did it to me. Why wouldn’t he do it to Landon now that he has a face to pin his rage on?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. I wrap the quilt around my shoulders and shuffle to the window. The lot below is half ice, half slush. The county plow carved a narrow canyon through what used to be a drift right down the center of the road. A fat crow picks at something by the dumpster like it’s his day job. Everything is normal in exactly the wrong way.
A clunk from below. The little alarm chimes when the front door opens and shuts. Voices, faint. These people. This place. It’sbarely been more than a month, and it’s already the first thing my body recognizes as home.
