Lance paused mid-stride, shooting me a look that was part irritation, part fondness. "I don't pace."

  "Right. You... aggressively walk in circles. My mistake."

  There it was. The tiniest hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. Progress.

  He'd been wound tighter than a spring since we got back from the compound. Hypervigilant. Jumping at shadows. Like he was expecting Charles to rise from the dead and come for us with a vengeance.

  Not that I blamed him. I'd been having the same paranoid thoughts.

  "Uncle Philippe called," he said abruptly, settling onto the bed across from me. Close enough that I could smell his soap and the antiseptic from his bandages and something uniquely him that made my pulse skip.

  My stomach dropped. Uncle Philippe—one of the remaining family heads. The shadow business Lance had walked away from years ago.

  "What did he want?" The words came out sharper than I intended, but I couldn't help it. The idea of that world trying to pull Lance back in made my chest tight with panic.

  "The situation's contained. The uncles have cleaned everything up—no one's coming to ask questions about what happened at the compound. Cleaners have already been through. They'll sell the property." Lance's jaw was still tight, but some of the tension had left his shoulders. "Philippe offered me a place back in the fold if I wanted it."

  The words hung in the air between us like a loaded gun.

  "Do you want to go back?" I asked quietly. "Make that side of the business legitimate?"

  He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. "I'm not sure there's even a way to do that."

  "What happens now?"

  "That all probably depends on Hector." His voice was careful, measured. "He has a lot more to unpack than I do."

  "Do you think Hector will walk away or not?"

  Lance shook his head slowly. "I don't know. He has a lot more to unpack than I do."

  "How is he doing? Physically, I mean."

  "Stable. The surgery went better than expected. The doctors think he'll make a full recovery."

  The relief was overwhelming. Hector—who'd thrown himself between a bullet and Lance without hesitation. Who'd been willing to die to protect my husband.

  My heart. The man I'd almost lost for real this time.

  "That's good," I said softly. "Really good."

  Lance nodded, but his jaw was still tight, his shoulders rigid with tension he couldn't seem to shake. "He asked about you. Wanted to know if you were okay."

  "And what did you tell him?"

  "The truth. That you're tougher than both of us put together."

  My chest went warm at that. At the pride in his voice when he said it. Lance had seen me kill a man in that compound. Had watched me hold my own in a firefight, use the training he'd given me to protect myself and help save him.

  And he wasn't horrified. Wasn't disgusted. He was proud.

  "I'm not tough," I said, leaning back against the cushions. "I'm stubborn. There's a difference."

  "Is there?" His hand found mine, fingers threading through with the kind of careful precision that suggested he was afraid I might pull away. "Because from where I was sitting, you walking into that compound to get me..."

  He trailed off, but I could see the memory playing behind his eyes. The fear. The relief.

  "We got you out," I said simply. "That's all that matters."

  "You saved my life." His thumb traced over my knuckles, gentle and warm. "You and Hector both."

  Because it was over. Because Charles was dead and his empire was crumbling and no one was coming for us anymore.

  "I keep thinking about her," I admitted. "Amber, I mean. About how long she pretended to be my friend."

  Lance's grip on my hand tightened. "She was using you."

  "I know. Logically, I know that. But there's this stupid part of me that keeps wondering what I did wrong. What I missed. How could I be so blind?"

  "You didn't do anything wrong," Lance said, his voice fierce. "You trusted someone who made herself trustworthy. That's not a character flaw—that's being human."

  Human. Right. The thing I'd been trying so hard to hold onto in the middle of all this violence.

  I looked at him—really looked. At the bruises mapping his torso like a roadmap of violence. At the careful way he held himself, protecting his injured ribs. At the exhaustion in his eyes that went deeper than physical pain.

  He'd used himself as bait so his grandfather could be tracked and taken down. He was tortured. For hours. And he'd endured it all to protect me. To protect us.

  "I thought I'd lost you," I said quietly. "When Amber took you. When we found you in that compound, I thought⁠—"

  "Hey." He shifted closer, his free hand coming up to cup my face. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise." His thumb brushed across my cheek, and I realized I was crying. When had I started crying?

  Probably around the time you thought about losing him again.

  "I love you," I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "I love your darkness and your light and your stubborn insistence on protecting everyone, even when it nearly gets you killed. I love how you make coffee in the morning and how you watch me work like I'm creating something magical. I love that you came back from the dead for me."

  And I love that you're not afraid of what we had to do to survive.

  His breath hitched. "Morgan⁠—"

  "I'm not afraid of you," I continued, needing to get this out. "Of what you can do, what you've done. I'm not afraid of your family or your past or the monster you think you are. Because you're not a monster, Lance. You're the man who taught me to defend myself. Who held me when I had nightmares. Who married me to keep me safe and then fell in love with me anyway."

  His breath hitched. "Morgan⁠—"

  "I thought I'd lost you," I whispered, my forehead dropping to rest against his. " When we found you in that compound, I thought I'd die from the fear alone."

  "But you didn't lose me. I'm right here."

  "You're right here," I repeated, like he was testing the words. Making sure they were real.

  We were both here. Battered and bruised and probably traumatized, but alive.

  I kissed him then. Soft and careful, mindful of his split lip and the bruises on his face. He tasted like coffee and relief and coming home after the longest journey of my life.

  This. This was what I almost lost.

  "I need you," he said against my mouth, his voice rough with something that went beyond physical desire. "I need to feel you. To know you're real."

  To remind himself that we both survived.

  I understood. The desperate need to connect, to prove we were alive through touch and breath and the fundamental act of being together. It wasn't just about sex—it was about existence. About choosing life and love over fear and loss.

  "Then take me," I said. "I'm yours."

  Have been since that first night when you looked at me like I was worth protecting.

  He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands tangling in my hair with the kind of careful reverence that made my chest ache. Like I was something precious he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch.

  After everything we'd been through, he still looked at me like I was a miracle.

  I stood slowly, drawing him with me toward the bed. His movements were stiff, careful, but determined. Nothing was going to keep him from this—from us—not even his battered body.

  Stubborn man. My stubborn, beautiful man.

  The afternoon light streaming through the windows was soft, golden, casting everything in warm honey tones. It felt different from the harsh fluorescents of the French hospital or the cold sterility of the compound where we'd almost lost everything.

  This was our space. Our sanctuary.

  Lance sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with eyes that held too many emotions to catalog. Love and desire and relief and fear and gratitude all tangled together in a look that made my knees weak.

  The way he was looking at me. Like he was memorizing every detail.

  "We're going to take this slow," I said, moving to stand between his knees. "Because you're hurt and I'm not interested in sending you back to the hospital."

  "Morgan—"

  "Slow," I repeated firmly, pressing my fingers to his lips. "We have time. We have all the time in the world now."

  Because Charles was dead. Because the threat was gone. Because we were finally free.

  His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears. "I love you so fucking much."

  There it was. The broken vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.

  "I know," I said softly, starting to unbutton my shirt with deliberate slowness. "I love you too."

  More than I thought it was possible to love another person.

  A knock at the door interrupted the moment, gentle but insistent.

  "Come in," Lance called, pulling me closer against his side.

  Atticus stepped into the room, his phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, he's finally out," he was saying. "Both of them are doing better."

  He held out the phone to me. "Gwen wants to say hi."

  I took the phone, Lance's arm still wrapped around me. "Hey, Gwen."

  "Morgan." Her voice was warm with relief. "Atticus says Lance is finally out of the hospital. How's he doing?"

  "Stubborn as ever," I said, glancing at Lance, who rolled his eyes. "But he's healing."

  "Good. And you? Really?"

  I was quiet for a moment. We'd talked every day since it happened, but the weight of it still sat heavy on my chest. "Some moments are better than others."

  "The nightmares?"

  "Yeah." I closed my eyes. "But Lance helps. Being here with him helps."

  "You know you did the right thing," Gwen said gently. It was something she'd been saying for three days now, but I still struggled to believe it.

  "I know you think so."

  "I don't think so. I know so." Her voice was firm. "It was you or her, Morgan. You walked away. That's what matters."

  I closed my eyes, feeling tears slip down my cheeks. "It doesn't feel like it."

  "It will," Atticus said quietly. "Give it time."

  "We're coming home tomorrow," I said into the phone, needing to change the subject. "Pierce arranged everything."

  "Good. I need to see for myself that you're both in one piece." Gwen's voice softened. "I love you, Morgan. We all do. What you did—going after Lance like that—it was stupid and reckless and exactly what family does for each other."

  Family. That's what we were. Chosen family who'd risk everything for each other.

  "I love you too," I whispered.

  After I hung up and handed the phone back to Atticus, he settled into the chair by the window. "How are you really doing?"

  Lance answered first. "I'm alive. We both are. That's more than I expected three days ago."

  "And you?" Atticus looked at me with those perceptive eyes that saw too much.

  "I keep thinking about her," I admitted. "About how long she pretended to be my friend. And then... the way she looked when I shot her."

  "She made her choice," Lance said quietly. "Just like you made yours."

  "We're going to get you both some help when we get back," Atticus said. "Professional help. What you've been through... it's not something you just walk away from."

  I nodded, knowing he was right. The nightmares would come. The guilt. The replaying of every moment.

  But we were alive. We were free. And we were going home.

  "What time is our flight tomorrow?" Lance asked.

  "Two in the afternoon," Atticus replied. "Pierce arranged everything. Private jet, no complications."

  No complications. Just the way I liked it.

  "Good," I said, settling more firmly against Lance. "I'm ready to go home."

  Twenty-Nine

  Home.

  I stood in the doorway of our loft, watching Morgan hover near the kitchen island like she wasn't sure she belonged here anymore. Three months of hell had changed everything—the way she moved, the way she held herself, the careful distance she maintained even in our own space.

  She'd been quiet on the flight back from Marseille, staring out the window like she was memorizing the clouds. Now, surrounded by the familiar chaos of our life—her sketches still scattered across the dining table, my coffee mug still sitting in the sink from the morning everything went to shit—she looked lost.

  "Morgan." My voice came out rougher than I intended, and she turned toward me with those expressive eyes that had haunted my dreams for months. "You okay?"

  She wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture so achingly vulnerable it made my chest tight. "I don't know what to do." The admission was barely above a whisper, like she was ashamed of feeling displaced in her own home. "It's stupid, but I feel like I don't know how to just... be here anymore."

  Fuck. Of course she felt that way. We'd been living in survival mode for so long, the simple act of existing in our normal space probably felt foreign.

  I moved toward her slowly, giving her time to pull away if she needed to. But she didn't. Instead, she leaned into me when I reached for her, her forehead dropping to rest against my chest with a shaky exhale.

  "It's not stupid," I said, pressing my lips to the top of her head. "Nothing about how you feel is stupid, Spitfire. We've been through hell."

  "I keep expecting someone to kick down the door," she admitted, her voice muffled against my shirt. "Or for my phone to ring with another crisis, or..." She trailed off, but I could feel the tension radiating through her body.

  She's been holding it together for so long. For me. For everyone.

  "Hey." I pulled back just enough to cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "We're safe. We're home. Charles is dead, Amber's dead, and the uncles have made it clear we're not targets anymore. No one's coming for us."

  She nodded, but I could see the doubt lingering in her expression. The fear that had become so deeply ingrained it would take time to shake.

  "Dance with me," I said suddenly, the words coming out before I'd fully formed the thought.

  Morgan blinked, confusion replacing some of the anxiety. "What?"

  "Dance with me." I slid my hands down to her waist, pulling her closer. "Right here, right now."

  A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips—the first real expression I'd seen from her since we walked through the door. "There's no music, Lance."

  There it is. That spark I've been missing.

  I reached into my pocket for my phone, scrolling through my playlist until I found what I was looking for. Nina Simone's voice filled the kitchen, sultry and hypnotic, singing about spells and possession and the kind of love that consumed you completely.

  Perfect.

  "Better?" I asked, already beginning to sway with her in my arms.

  And that's when she broke.

  The tears came without warning, silent at first, then building to quiet sobs that shook her entire frame. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she buried her face against my neck and let me hold her as she finally relaxed.

  "I'm sorry," she gasped between sobs, her hands fisting in my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear. "I'm sorry, I don't know why⁠—"

  "Shh." I tightened my arms around her, one hand stroking through her hair while we continued our slow dance. "You don't need to apologize for feeling, baby. Let it out."

  "I never thought we'd be here again," she whispered, her voice broken and raw. "In our kitchen, dancing, happy... I thought Charles had destroyed everything, and then when Amber took you, I thought—" Her voice cracked completely.

  Jesus. She's been carrying all of this.

  "I'm right here," I murmured against her temple, my own throat tight with emotion. "I'm right here, and I'm never leaving you again. Never, Morgan. I swear to god."

  She pulled back to look at me, her eyes red-rimmed but searching. "Promise?"

  "Promise." I held up my pinky finger, feeling ridiculous but knowing she needed the gesture. "Pinky swear, even."

  That earned me a watery laugh as she linked her finger with mine. "You're an idiot."

  "Your idiot," I corrected, leaning down to capture her lips in a soft kiss that tasted like salt and relief and coming home after the longest journey of either of our lives.

  When we broke apart, she was looking at me with an expression I recognized—heat and love and something deeper that made my pulse kick up several notches.

  "Lance." My name on her lips was half prayer, half demand.

  Finally.

  I didn't need to ask what she wanted. I could see it in the way her breathing had changed, in the way her pupils had dilated, in the way she was looking at me like I was something she needed to consume.

  "You sure?" I asked anyway, because after everything we'd been through, consent was sacred.

  Her answer was to rise up on her toes and kiss me again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine with desperate hunger. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with desire.

  "I need you to make love to me," she said, the words carrying the weight of everything we'd survived. "I need to feel alive again, Lance. I need to feel us again."

  Happy to oblige.

  I swept her up into my arms, gratified when she wrapped her legs around my waist and kissed along my jaw as I carried her toward the stairs.

  Her lips were warm and urgent against my throat as I took the stairs two at a time, her teeth grazing my skin in ways that made my cock strain against my jeans. The familiar creak of the third step from the top usually annoyed me, but tonight it sounded like a welcome home song.

  "God, I missed this," she breathed against my ear, her voice husky with need. "Too many clothes," she whispered, her fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt.

  I couldn't agree more. With her legs still wrapped around me, my free hand found the hem of her blouse, and I pulled at it roughly, hearing the satisfying pop of buttons scattering across the hardwood. Morgan gasped as the cool air hit her exposed skin, and I growled in satisfaction.