Amelia woke to warmth.
Not the cold of her old bedroom. Not the empty space beside her that she'd grown used to over years of sleeping alone.
This was an arm draped loosely over her waist. A chest pressed against her back. Breath against her hair, slow and even.
She didn't move.
For a long moment, she simply lay there, letting herself feel it.
The way her body had curved into his sometime during the night, as if it knew something her mind was still afraid to accept.
Then the memories came back.
The couch. His hands on her waist. Her fingers in his hair.The kiss.
God.
Amelia's eyes opened.
Morning light filtered through the curtains – thin and pale, too early for the sun to be fully up. She was in her bed. Their bed? She didn't remember climbing the stairs. She didn't remember leaving the living room.
Ethan must have carried her again.
Her heart squeezed.
She turned slowly, carefully, not wanting to wake him. But when she shifted, his arm tightened around her waist. A reflex.
He appears fully asleep.
She faced him.
Ethan's eyes were closed. In sleep, the sharpness of him softened. His jaw was relaxed. His lips were slightly parted. His hair had fallen across his forehead, and without thinking, Amelia reached up and brushed it back.
His eyes opened.
Not slowly, the way people usually woke from space.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was rough, thick with sleep.
Amelia's hand was still near his face. She let it fall.
"Good morning."
Neither of them moved.
The space between them was barely a breath. His arm was still around her waist. Her legs were tangled with his. The blanket had slipped sometime during the night, and she could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of her dress.
She was still wearing yesterday's clothes.
He was still wearing his shirt from the office.
We fell asleep on the couch, she thought. And he carried me to bed.
She looked at him and tried to find the man who had appeared outside her window. The stranger her father had sold her to.
He was there. She could see him in the sharp line of his jaw, in the stillness of his body, in the way he watched her like she was something he'd been waiting for his whole life.
But there was something else now.
Something that had been there last night, when his lips met hers. Something that had been there when he carried her inside, when he set her down on the couch like she was breakable, when he asked Still want me to stop? like he was prepared to hear yes.
"You stayed," she said quietly.
"I told you I would."
"No." She shook her head slightly. "Last night. After the kiss. You could have left. You could have gone to your room. But you stayed."
Ethan was quiet for a moment. His thumb moved against her waist – a small, absent motion, like he didn't realize he was doing it.
"I didn't want to leave," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I've spent three years watching you from a distance. And now that you're here – now that you're mine – I don't want to miss a single second."
MINE
The word landed in her chest like a stone dropping into deep water.
She should be afraid. She should push him away. She should remember that this man had been a stranger two weeks ago, that she'd been forced into this marriage, that she still didn't know the truth about the locked room or the men at the door or why her father had looked at Ethan like he was the devil himself.
But all she could think about was how warm he was. How steady.
How, for the first time in weeks, she hadn't woken up alone.
"Ethan," she said.
"Yes?"
"I don't know what this is."
His hand moved from her waist to her face. His fingers traced her jaw, light as a whisper.
Then he kissed her.
Not like last night – desperate and hungry and years in the making. This was slower. A question and an answer at the same time.
Amelia's hand found his chest. She could feel his heart beneath her palm, beating fast. He's nervous, she realized. He's actually nervous.
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
"You're shaking," she said.
"I know."
"Why?"
"Because I've never had something I was afraid to lose before."
Amelia didn't know what to say to that.
So she just smiled.
_______
Later – much later – they finally left the bed.
Amelia stood in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of Ethan's shirts that she'd found draped over a chair. It fell past her thighs, and the sleeves swallowed her hands. She should feel strange, wearing his clothes. Vulnerable.
Instead, she felt safe.
Ethan was at the counter, making coffee. He'd showered and changed into a gray sweater, his hair still damp. He moved around the kitchen like he'd done it a thousand times – because he had, she realized. This was his life. His house. His routine.
And now she was in it.
"You're staring," he said without turning around.
"I'm observing."
"Same thing."
"No." She smiled slightly. "Staring is passive. Observing is active."
He turned, holding out a mug. "And what have you observed?"
She took the mug. Their fingers brushed.
"That you make coffee the same way every morning. That you don't own a television. That you read books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages."
Ethan's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened. "Anything else?"
Amelia hesitated.
She thought about the locked room at the end of the hall. The drawer she'd found empty. The way he said I'm sorry in his sleep.
But she didn't want to break this. Not yet. Not when the morning was still soft and warm and he was looking at her like she was something precious.
"You're not what I expected," she said instead.
"What did you expect?"
"A monster."
Ethan set down his mug. He walked toward her slowly, stopping when he was close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.
"Amelia," he said quietly. "I am a monster. I've done things – seen things – that would make you run. But I will never hurt you. Not intentionally. Not ever."
"Then why do you say you're sorry in your sleep?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Ethan went still.
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then he stepped back.
Amelia wanted to push. Wanted to demand answers. But she saw something in his face – something raw and unfinished – and she stopped herself.
"Fine," she said quietly. "You can tell me later."
He nodded once. Then he turned back to the counter and picked up his coffee.
But his hands were shaking again.
______
An hour later, they were in the car.
Ethan had said they needed to stop briefly at the office. Amelia just got in the car and buckled her seatbelt.
Amelia watched the city pass by and thought about the morning. His arms around her. The way he'd said mine like it was a prayer.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
Unknown Number: Stay away from Victoria.
Amelia's blood went cold.
She typed back: Who is this?
Unknown Number: Someone trying to keep you alive.
She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Who are you?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Unknown Number: Ask your husband about the locked room.
The car stopped at a red light.
Amelia looked up. Ethan was watching her, his expression unreadable.
"Who texted you?" he asked.
She should tell him. Should show him the phone. Should demand answers.
But something stopped her.
"No one," she said. "Wrong number."
Ethan's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. Then the light turned green, and he looked back at the road.
Amelia slipped her phone into her pocket.
Her hands were shaking.
And for the first time since last night, she wasn't sure if the danger was outside the car – or sitting right beside her.