Page 34 of Collateral Damage
My hand is moving in slow circles against her shoulder blade, and I can feel the delicate curve of her spine beneath the soft cotton of her sweater. She's so small against me. Fragile in a way that makes something protective and possessive coil tight in my chest.
It's been years since I've held a woman like this. Since I've let anyone close. The accusations echo daily: workaholic, emotionally unavailable, married to the job. Too traditional. Too rigid. Too religious.
But sitting here with Ava in my arms, every point of contact burns. Her cheek against my chest. The slight weight of her leaning into me, trusting me to hold her up.
I shouldn't notice these things. Shouldn't be fighting the urge to tighten my arms around her and never let go.
This is dangerous territory.
She shifts, and I brace myself for her to shift back, to put professional distance between us again.
Instead, she tilts her head up and looks at me.
Eyes still wet with tears, vulnerable, trusting.
My hand moves from her hair to cup her jaw before I can stop myself. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my palm.
"Ava," I say quietly. Warning or surrender, I'm not sure which.
But I don't let go.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the distance. To lower my head those final few inches and?—
I force myself to breathe. To remember who I am and what I'm here to do.
She's scared. Seeking comfort, not... this.
God, give me strength.
The prayer is silent, desperate. Because right now, with her looking up at me like that, I need something stronger than my own resolve.
Her lips part slightly, like she's about to say something.
I move before she can. Before I do something we'll both regret.
My hands drop to my sides, and I shuffle the chair back to where it was. "Maybe try to rest," I say, voice too abrupt. "Leave your phone with me. I'll let you know the second we hear anything about your mother."
She blinks, the spell breaking. Color rises in her cheeks.
"Right," she says quietly. "Yes. Thank you."
She turns, rises on shaky legs, and heads toward the bedroom, and I watch her go, jaw clenched, hands fisted at my sides as I breathe out a prayer I hope I’m sure to be repeating.
Thank you, Lord, for the discipline I didn't have on my own.
Nine
Ava
The mattress presses against my shoulder blades, firm and unforgiving, offering no give where I need it most. After a while, pretending I can rest feels pointless.
I slip back out into the main room and find Silas working on a laptop. The firelight carves his profile in bronze and shadow, his shoulders still angled toward the flames exactly as they were when I left. He doesn’t say a word about me not staying put.
Instead, he puts the laptop to one side and smiles. “Scrabble?” he says, like it’s a reasonable solution.
The normalcy of his suggestion is as comforting as his arms.
“Why not,” I say.
