He yanked down his coat zipper, wrapped it around both of us, and pulled me into him. His arms locked tight around my waist like if he let go, I’d slip into the night.
Then, quiet and fierce against my skin, he said:
“Savannah Smith, I swear on my name—I’ll give you a home. No matter what it costs me.”
I smiled bitterly.
When I got back to the apartment, he was passed out on the couch, snoring softly. The TV was still on—muted, casting blue shadows across his face. I tucked a blanket around him, careful not to wake him. He looked so damn peaceful it made my chest ache.
Peaceful—like he hadn’t shattered me just hours ago. His phone buzzed. Two unread messages.
Both from Zoraya.
“She made sure I got home safe, don’t worry Mr. Lambert! ”
“Goodnight, see you tomorrow! ”
My hands shook. I told myself to let it go. That I was being paranoid. But my thumb didn’t listen.
It hovered. Then tapped. I scrolled up.
“You left a mark on my thigh It’s still sore.”
“You liked it.”
“Obviously. I was soaking through my underwear before you even touched me.”