Chapter Thirty-Four

Ghost

T he limo moored to the Solace. The crew readied her to be hoisted into the tender hold, and I saw it happen.

She shut down.

The determination in her eyes, the fortitude, the way she used to look at me, the connection— that fucking connection —it all disappeared in a blink, and her expression went dark.

Not haunted dark, but void.

My brown-eyed girl, my number one, the woman who'd looked at me with shocked awe when I'd taken her in the ocean for the first time. The sheepherder girl who'd given me her shy smile when I'd brought her a fucking kettle. The woman who'd cooked elaborate meals for me and had them waiting every damn time I'd shown up at the house, not because I had to check on her, but because I'd needed to see her.

She was gone.

But she was conscious, breathing, and didn't appear to have any broken bones.

I told myself it was enough.

I was still fucking repeating it when the tender was secured and I carried her on board.

Leaving Ares to deal with Helios, ignoring the crew after getting directions to a full, private bath and requesting a dry fucking shirt not soaked in blood, I carried her to the bridge deck and strode into the owner's suite.

Glancing to make sure the en suite had what I needed, I set her down on the bed. "Do you still prefer baths?"

Shivering, she looked blankly across the full-beam suite. "How…." Her voice rough, she swallowed and tried again. "How do you know I take baths?"

I didn't tell her my favorite pastime was stalking the peasant girl I'd stolen, then killed and committed treason for. The woman whose life I'd almost ended tonight. "Your toiletries are next to the bathtub at the house."

Her chin fell to her chest, and her arms crossed.

I dropped to a squat. "Hey." Ignoring my stab wound—ignoring every goddamn thing except her—I grasped the outside of her thighs with purposeful pressure. "You're safe."

"There is no such thing." Her rasp dropped to a whisper. "Not in this life."

Absorbing the blow, absorbing eight goddamn years of them, wishing I'd taken every one solo so she didn't have to, I choked down guilt, but not before I registered her exact phrasing. There was no this life . Not for me and her. It was our life. It had been since the moment I'd laid eyes on her.

I understood what I'd put her through. What I was still putting her through, but neither of us had control over our initial collision trajectory, and I'd lived, breathed, and ate retaliation for her and Feralyn ever since. I wouldn't fucking apologize for that.

But I would make the woman who'd saved my life a new promise.

Not that it'd fix the here and now, but I gave it anyway. "Last time, Safiya. I promise."

Glancing up, looking so damn vacant, it gutted me more than any knife could, she parted her lips and took the kill shot. "I do not want to do this anymore."

For two seconds, I flatlined.

No air. No heart rate. No pumping blood.

Then adrenaline rushed, my lungs inhaled, and I mainlined on the surge of epinephrine driving blood to my muscles. Synapses firing, mission focused, my next move crystal fucking clear, I stood.

"Understood." Locking every damn thing down, I reached for her.

Her sharp inhale hit me in the solar plexus, and she flinched. "No."

Ignoring her protest, I picked her up anyway. I knew what would happen the second I did. Because I knew what my girl needed.

Except she wasn't a girl, and she wasn't mine.

This woman was my life. She was my hayatim .

Striding into the en suite, sitting on the edge of the tub with her in my arms, I turned on the water.

"Grayson," she whispered, finally, finally curling into my chest.

"I know." Pulling her closer, I tested the water temperature.

"You do not," she accused in a protest too damn quiet to have any impact on my actions, but it sure as hell compounded my guilt. "Otherwise, you would not be doing this."

I knew exactly what that single rasp of my name crossing her lips meant because I knew this woman. I knew what she wanted, craved, dreamt of. What she denied herself. What she was pushing for now. I fucking knew because I'd been cataloging her every glance for eight punishing years.

The only thing I didn't know was how fucked we'd both be if I sank inside her so goddamn deep that she'd never pull away from me again.

But I wasn't going there.

I couldn't.

I'd made her a promise. One look at her fear when she'd first walked into the house I'd bought her, and I'd made damn sure she knew I wasn't one of those fucking terrorists. I hadn't gotten her out to take advantage of her. I promised her right then that I'd never touch her—not in a sexual way.

But I'd never lied and told her I didn't want to.

I'd also never told her I wanted to own every inch of her.

Back then, it would've been fucking wrong.

The past eight years, it would've been wrong.

But I still thought about it.

Every damn day.

I was thinking it now as I held her. Selfishly inhaling every breathing, living inch of her until the tub filled with near-scalding water.

Then I stood and placed my hayatim in the only comfort I could give her.