Page 16 of Tempted By Shadow

He stands. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Going to fight for us, for me, for whatever the hell we’ve been building these past few weeks.

He doesn’t.

He walks to the door, grabs his jacket, and leaves without looking back.

The click of the lock is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.

I stand in my kitchen, alone, and wait for the tears to come. They don’t. I’m too angry to cry. Too furious at him, at myself, at the universe for confirming what I’ve always known.

I’m not worth choosing. I never have been.

I go to bed, but I can’t sleep.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every moment, every sign I should have seen. He was pulling away for days. Maybe longer. I just didn’t want to see it.

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

I finally drift off around two AM, exhausted and empty, my face stiff from tears that came eventually whether I wanted them or not.

I wake to the mattress dipping.

For a moment, I think I’m dreaming. Then I feel the warmth of him behind me, the careful way he slides under the covers, and my whole body goes rigid.

“Naomi.” His voice was rough. Wrecked. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

I should tell him to leave. Should scream at him, throw something, make him hurt the way I’ve been hurting for the past four hours.

Instead, I turn over and look at him.

He looks terrible. Eyes red, jaw tight, like he’s been fighting himself the entire way back. His hands are shaking when he reaches for me.

“I got halfway to the clubhouse,” he says, “and I realized I was being a complete fucking idiot. The patch doesn’t mean anything if I lose you. Nothing means anything if I lose you.”

“Shadow—”

“I choose you.” His voice cracks. “I should have said it hours ago. I choose you, Naomi. I’ll figure out the rest. I’ll tell King, I’ll face whatever comes, but I’m not walking away from you again.”

I don’t have words. I just pulled him closer, burying my face against his chest, and he wraps his arms around me so tight it’s hard to breathe. I don’t care. I need this. Need him. Need to feel solid proof that he came back.

We don’t talk after that. There’s nothing left to say — not tonight, not when we’re both exhausted and raw and running on fumes. He holds me, I hold him, and eventually the tension drains out of both of us.

I fall asleep with his heartbeat under my ear and his arms around me.

The sound of the door wakes us both.

I’m disoriented for a second — warm body behind me, unfamiliar noise, middle of the night. Then Shadow goes rigid against my back, fully alert in an instant, and I hear it clearly: voices. Multiple voices. Male, unfamiliar, way too calm for three in the morning.

“Stay here,” Shadow breathes against my ear.

He’s already moving, sliding out of bed silent as a ghost, pulling on his jeans. I grab the baseball bat I keep in the corner — a habit from Vegas, from Tyler’s sketchy associates — and ignore his glare.

“Like hell I’m staying here.”

We move to the bedroom doorway together.

Three men. Standing in my living room like they own the place. Two of them are big — muscle, hired help, the sort of guys who hurt people for money. The third is older, maybe late forties, with gray streaking through his dark hair and eyes that assess the situation with cold calculation.

His gaze lands on Shadow. On me.