Page 74 of Beautiful Savage
"Daphne." Her name comes out rough, cracked at the edges. First word I've spoken to her in nine days. "Are you hurt? Beyond…" I can't finish, can't name the bruise that makes mewant to resurrect every dead man upstairs just to kill them slower.
"Just the bruise and the ties." Her voice is hoarse from not speaking, but steady. "I can walk."
I cut the zip-ties with the combat knife still wet with blood. Right wrist first, sliding the blade between her skin and the plastic, careful not to nick her. The tie parts and her hand falls free, revealing angry red marks pressed deep into her skin. Left wrist. Right ankle. Left ankle. Each cut releases her a little more back to me. Her hands are ice-cold, circulation cut off for hours. The urge to warm them with my mouth, to kiss each mark, nearly breaks my operational focus.
She doesn't try to stand. She waits, reading me like she always has.
I set the knife on the concrete and lift her from the chair. One arm under her knees, one supporting her back. She's so light, too light, like she hasn't been eating. Her arm wraps around my neck automatically and her face presses against my shoulder. Through the blood and gunpowder, I smell her hair. The same scent that haunted my empty bed for nine nights. My cock stirs despite everything, my body recognizing hers even now.
I carry her up the stairs past the dying boss whose breathing has gone wet and labored, through the hallway where Logan's team has already started cleanup, out the kitchen door into humid night air. Logan stands by the porch, reads everything in my face, nods once. I set her in the passenger seat of the lead Suburban, lean across to buckle her seatbelt. For two seconds, we're close enough that I could kiss her, claim her mouth, remind us both what we are to each other. But I don't. Can't. Not until she asks.
The drive north stretches through darkness. Alligator Alley to I-95, empty highway under stars. She sits silent beside me, looking out the passenger window while I white-knuckle thesteering wheel to keep from pulling over and examining every inch of her for damage.
Halfway to Pristine, somewhere around West Palm, she moves.
Her hand slides from her lap to the center console to my thigh. No pressure, just cold fingers flat against my work pants. The contact shoots through me like lightning. Nine days since she touched me. Seven since she told me to stay away. Her frozen fingers burn through the fabric, and I have to grip the wheel to keep from pulling over and crushing her against me.
I don't move immediately. Don't look at her. Can't. If I look at her now, I'll lose the last thread of control. Then, slowly, I cover her hand with mine. Just for one breath. In through my nose, tasting blood and swamp and her, out through my mouth. The first concession to feeling I've allowed since I left La Sirena. Her hand under mine, real and solid and here.
She withdraws slowly, deliberate, sliding back to her lap. She set the contact. She ended it. She's in control, and I let her be because it's what she needs. The remaining hour passes in silence while my thigh burns with phantom touch.
The cottage appears at the end of Pristine's sleeping street, porch light glowing at three in the morning. Two Delgado security men are in position. Marisol arranged them hours ago to replace the ones we lost when they took my girl — the driver didn't make it; his partner took a blade to the shoulder and lived. One man at the corner now, one behind the house. Nicolas waits at the door in pajamas and robe, his arm still in its cast from when Hallstein's men came before.
Daphne turns to me for the first time since the basement. The bruise is darker now, purple-black in the dashboard light.
"Thank you for coming for me." The words are controlled, acknowledging without warmth. Without forgiveness.
I nod once. Can't speak. If I open my mouth, I'll beg.
She opens the door, steps out on legs that shake slightly. I watch her walk the path alone, watch every unsteady step while my body screams to carry her, to follow, to never let her go again. Nicolas waits at the threshold. Father embraces daughter with his good arm, and they disappear inside. The door closes.
She doesn't look back.
I sit in the driveway for ten long seconds. Everything in me demands I follow, kick down that door, carry her over that threshold myself. Make her mine again. But her verdict from seven days ago still stands.Stay away from us.The hand on my thigh was acknowledgment, not invitation. Gratitude, not forgiveness.
I start the engine, pull onto the dark road heading south. My hands grip the wheel while my thigh still burns with the memory of her touch. The phantom sensation of her cold fingers spreads through me, the only truth that matters. She touched me. After everything, after the verdict, after seven days of silence, she chose to touch me.
I press my own hand to my thigh where hers rested, trying to hold onto the ghost of her. My cock hardens at just the memory, my body already forgetting the seven bodies behind me, remembering only her fingers claiming me for those few seconds. The bruise on her jaw flashes behind my eyelids every time I blink. Someone marked what's mine. Someone hurt her while I sat in my apartment drowning in self-pity.
Twelve hours. That's all I'm giving her verdict to stand. Twelve hours to heal, to rest, to remember what her body knows. That she belongs to me. That every breath she takes, every beat of her heart, every drop of wetness between her thighs when she thinks of me, all of it is mine.
Hallstein dies today. The dossier releases. The world will know what he is. And when that's done, when his blood is on my hands and justice is served, I'm coming back for her.
This time, I'm not asking permission. This time, I'm not leaving without her. Her body already told me what her words won't. That hand on my thigh was a confession her pride won't let her speak. She needs me to take the choice from her, needs me to be the monster who claims what's his so she doesn't have to admit she wants to be claimed.
Twelve hours, Daphne. Then I'm coming, and this time when I cross that threshold, you're leaving with me whether you've forgiven me or not.
28 - Daphne
My wrists and ankles hurt from being zip tied, and my jaw aches from being punched. But those aren’t what bothers me.
Papa brings me breakfast in bed, perches on the edge of my mattress while I spoon scrambled eggs into my mouth. His gaze lands on the photo of Maman.
"Hélène loved it here," he says suddenly, the words careful but certain. "In a way that you don't."
I look up sharply. "I love it here, Papa."
"Don't lie to me, cherie. You love me, but you're meant for bigger things than this small town." His good hand rests flat on the mattress.
