Page 89 of Fury
His father exchanges a knowing look with his mother but doesn't comment on the obvious possessiveness.
When I mention wanting to shower, Greyson immediately scoops me up, carrying me to the en suite. He helps me undress with reverent hands, his eyes cataloging each bruise and scrape with renewed fury. Then he strips down himself and steps into the shower with me, supporting my weight so I don't have to put pressure on my injured ankle.
"I can manage," I insist as he carefully washes my hair, his movements achingly gentle.
"I know you can." He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "But you don't have to. Not while I'm here."
His tenderness nearly undoes me. This is the flip side of his ferocious protection—the care, the absolute devotion that makes it impossible to resent his overprotective behavior.
After the shower, he wraps me in a towel larger than I am, drying me with the same focus he applies to everything concerning my well-being. When he carries me back to bed, I notice fresh sheets and blankets have appeared, courtesy of his mother, no doubt.
"You can't keep carrying me everywhere," I say as he tucks the blankets around me. "You're injured too, Greyson. You need to rest."
"I'm fine." He dismisses my worries, though the bandage on his temple tells a different story.
"You're not fine," I argue, catching his hand to stop his fussing with the blankets. "None of us are fine right now. But we will be."
He sinks onto the bed beside me, suddenly looking exhausted. "I keep seeing it," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "That gun against your head. Those men touching you. I keep thinking about what would have happened if?—"
"But it didn't happen," I interrupt, squeezing his hand. "We got out. We survived."
"Because we got lucky." A tremor runs through him. "If we hadn't found that road…"
"But we did," I insist. "And now we're safe."
His laugh is hollow. "Are we? Volkov's still out there. He still thinks you have something he wants. And he's not the type to give up easily."
I can't argue with that. The truth is none of us will be truly safe until Volkov is dealt with permanently.
"Then we'll handle it," I say with more confidence than I feel. "Together. But right now, you need to take care of yourself too. You can't protect me if you collapse from exhaustion."
He considers this, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "I'll rest," he concedes finally. "But I'm not leaving this room, and I'm still carrying you when you need to move."
It's a small victory, but I'll take it. "Deal."
He stretches out beside me, his body curving around mine. Even now, even here in the heart of the clubhouse surrounded by armed men, he positions himself between me and the door.
"I love you," I whisper, feeling him relax incrementally as I nestle against him. "More than I knew it was possible to love someone."
His arms tighten around me, his breath warm against my neck. "You're everything to me, Livie. Everything. I can't—I won't—let anything happen to you again."
As he drifts toward sleep, his body finally surrendering to the exhaustion it's been fighting, I stare at the ceiling and wonder how we'll ever find our way back to normal after this. If there even is a "normal" to return to.
One thing is for certain, the man holding me like I might disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment will never be the same. And neither will I.
But perhaps that's not entirely a bad thing. Perhaps surviving something like this together forges a bond that nothing else could create—a connection tempered in fire, stronger for having been tested.
As I follow Greyson into sleep, I find myself thinking that whatever comes next, whether it's healing from our ordeal or facing Volkov again, we'll face it together. And that knowledge is enough to keep the nightmares at bay, at least for now.
Greyson
I jolt awake to the sound of Livie's scream tearing through the darkness. Her body convulses beside me, back arching off the mattress as another cry rips from her throat.
"Livie!" I'm instantly alert, pulling her thrashing form against my chest. "Baby, wake up. It's just a dream."
Her eyes fly open, wild with terror, unseeing. She fights against my hold, nails raking down my arms as she tries to escape whatever horror still has her in its grip.
"No! Don't touch me!" she sobs, still caught between nightmare and reality. "Please, don't?—"
