Page 58 of His to Protect
An hour later, I had the letter open again.
I sat cross-legged on the bed with the laptop warming my thighs, the screen casting pale light across my room. My eyes scanned each line, each sentence, looking for excuses to change something.
But I still couldn’t make myself press send.
My fingers hovered above the trackpad, frozen, until my hand dropped away. A quiet exhale slipped out of me.
I pushed myself up and left the room. Told myself I only needed water. I wasn’t avoiding anything. I wasn’t stalling. I was thirsty.
That was all.
The penthouse was dim except for the soft pool of light above the kitchen island. The fridge hummed quietly. The city glowed through the windows like embers in a fireplace—warm, soft, too pretty for how unsettled I felt.
Riven sat at the island surrounded by a neat spread of papers. His laptop sat open in front of him. And a pair of reading glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.
I stopped in the doorway. I'd never seen him wear glasses before. They made him look different—softer somehow, more approachable, devastatingly attractive.
My breath caught.
He looked up when he sensed movement.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
“Hey.” I walked to the sink and filled a glass with water. “Working late?”
“Reviewing case files for tomorrow.” He took off the glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, thumb and forefinger pressing the spots tension liked to collect. “You just got back?”
“Yeah.” I drank. “Long shift.”
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
He gave me a knowing look that said he didn't believe me. But he didn't call me on the lie. Just studied me for a moment longer before putting his glasses back on and returning his attention to his laptop.
I stood there with my glass halfway to my lips, pretending to drink water I didn’t want just so I didn’t have to leave. I watched him scroll through a file. His dark hair fell forward andhe pushed it back, the gesture was one I’d seen dozens of times already.
I’d learned the rhythm of him without trying.
The way he cracked his knuckles methodically before operating. How his voice dropped lower when he talked to Emma. How he ignored exhaustion until his body forced acknowledgment. The faint scar on his left hand from a skiing accident Emma had mentioned. The slight rasp in his voice after marathon surgical days. His quiet habit of checking the apartment every night before bed—like he couldn't help ensuring everything and everyone was safe.
“Are you okay?” Riven asked suddenly.
I blinked. He was watching me with that unsettling steadiness, as if he didn't mind taking his time.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Iamfine.”
He held my gaze for a few seconds then nodded, as if filing the answer away somewhere.
I set my empty glass in the sink. The metal clink was too loud in the quiet kitchen. I should’ve said goodnight and gone back to my room.
But I didn’t.
He returned to his laptop. Clicked. Scrolled. Adjusted his glasses. A breath of concentration left him as he scribbled a note on one of the papers.
