Page 40 of Fury
"So," I say, changing the subject before his eyes make me forget all about my injuries and the doctor's orders, "what was that about 'no strenuous activity of any kind'?"
A reluctant smile finally breaks through his serious expression. "That was the good doctor's subtle way of telling us not to have sex until your ribs heal."
"Six weeks?" I groan, flopping back against the couch cushions, then wincing as pain shoots through my side. "That's practically forever."
Greyson's smile widens as he moves to sit beside me, careful not to jostle me. "I think the doctor was being cautious. Besides," he adds, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my stomach flip, "there are plenty of ways to be… together… that won't strain your ribs."
Heat rushes to my face. "Is that so?"
"Mmmhmm." He leans closer, his lips brushing my ear. "And I intend to explore every single one of them. When you're ready."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. I check it, surprised to see Aunt Brittany's name on the screen.
"Everything okay?" Greyson asks, noticing my expression.
"It's my aunt. She wants to know if I'm still planning to start at the salon on Monday." I bite my lip, suddenly uncertain. "I completely forgot about work with everything that's happened."
Greyson's expression turns serious. "You don't have to decide right now. No one would blame you for taking some time off after what you've been through."
"But I want to work," I say, surprising myself with how true it is. "I need normal, Greyson. I need to feel like my life is moving forward, not just… recovering from trauma."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Then you work. I'll drive you to and from the salon until you're comfortable driving yourself again."
"You don't have to do that," I protest. "I'm sure you have club business?—"
"Nothing more important than you," he interrupts, his tone making it clear this isn't up for debate. "Besides, I like the idea of the whole town seeing us together. Removes any doubt about where things stand."
I raise an eyebrow. "And where do things stand, exactly?"
His eyes hold mine, serious and intent. "You're mine, Livie Bennett. And I'm yours. Everything else is just details we'll figure out along the way."
The simple declaration makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with fear or pain. There's something so fundamentally Greyson about it—direct, uncompromising, yet oddly gentle in its certainty.
"I like the sound of that," I admit, leaning into him carefully.
His arm comes around me, mindful of my injuries. "Good. Because I meant what I told your father—this isn't casual for me. This is real. This is…"
"Everything," I finish for him, understanding perfectly what he's trying to say.
His smile is devastatingly beautiful. "Everything," he agrees, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple.
As we sit there, his solid presence beside me a counterpoint to the aches and pains still radiating through my body, I realize something profound. For the first time since coming home, I'm not thinking about LA. Not wondering if I made a mistake in returning. Not feeling trapped or restless or uncertain.
Instead, I'm exactly where I want to be, with exactly who I want to be with. And for now, that's more than enough.
My phone buzzes again, and this time it's a call. I glance at the screen and feel my stomach drop. It's Diane. Again.
"You should talk to her," Greyson says quietly, nodding at my phone. "You'll never have peace until you do."
I know he's right, but that doesn't make it any easier. With a deep breath, I answer.
"Hello?"
"Oh my God, Livie!" Diane's voice comes through, thick with tears. "I've been calling you all day! I thought you were— I thought he might have?—"
"I'm alive," I cut her off, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "No thanks to you."
There's a pause, a shaky intake of breath. "I deserved that. I deserve worse."
