**Chapter 6: Safe**

The silence after the gunshots is heavier than the noise. It presses against my eardrums, thick and suffocating, until my own breathing tears through it like glass. I’m on my knees in the wet grass, fingers digging into the dirt, chest heaving. The man who tried to take him is gone. Cole made sure of that. He doesn’t just neutralize threats; he erases them. And now he’s standing over the body, rifle raised, shoulders tense, a silhouette carved from violence and adrenaline.

Then he turns.

The moment his eyes find mine, the tension fractures. The weapon drops to his side. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes when it’s just us. But the way he moves now is different. Softer. Calculated. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he moves too fast.

“Emma.”

My name leaves his lips like a prayer. Like a vow. Like he’s been starving for it.

I try to stand. My legs betray me. They tremble, buckle, and I fall forward into him. He catches me effortlessly, one arm banding around my back, the other cradling the back of my head. His chest is hard against mine, his heartbeat a frantic drum against my ear. He smells like gunpowder, rain, and that familiar, impossible sandalwood and sweat that’s haunted my dreams for a decade.

I press my face into the hollow of his throat and finally let myself cry. Not the quiet, restrained tears of the last ten years. Not the polite, hidden grief. I sob. I gasp. I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that kept spinning without him.

“I thought I lost you,” I choke out, the words torn from somewhere raw and bleeding. “I thought you were leaving again. I thought I’d have to go back to being nothing.”

Cole goes completely still. Then his arms tighten, crushing me against him. His voice drops, rough and low, vibrating through my ribs. “You won’t. I’m not leaving. Not ever again.”

He steps back just enough to look at me. His jaw is clenched, sweat tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones. The old scar along his brow is pale, but the new ones are fresh. A cut along his jaw. A bruise darkening his temple. His knuckles are split. Ten years have carved him into something harder, darker, more dangerous. But his eyes… his eyes are the same. Dark. Unyielding. Focused entirely on me like I’m the only compass he’s ever needed.

He reaches out, calloused fingers brushing a tear from my cheek. His touch is deliberate. Reverent. “Look at me, Em.”

I do.

“Do you understand what just happened out there?” he asks, voice quiet but edged with steel. “Do you know how close you came to losing me?”

The question catches me off guard. “What? No. I mean… you took care of it. You’re fine. You’re here.”

“I could have died,” he says simply. No pride. No bravado. Just a statement of fact that makes my stomach drop. “I could have walked out of that field in a body bag. And you would have been left holding the pieces. Again.”

His thumb traces my lower lip. I flinch at the memory. Ten years ago, he walked out. Left me in the wreckage. Let me pick up the shards alone. I thought that was over. I thought he was gone for good. But hearing him say it out loud, seeing the weight in his eyes, something cracks open inside my chest. I wasn’t just facing a threat. I was facing the ghost of every abandonment I’d ever survived. And this time, I almost lost him before I even got him back.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure for what. For the fear. For the doubt. For ten years of silence.

Cole’s expression darkens. Possessiveness flickers in his gaze, raw and unapologetic. “Don’t apologize. You keep your eyes on me. You keep your hands on me. You let me in. That’s all I need.”

He cups my face, tilting my head back. His breath is warm against my skin. “Come on. We’re going inside. You’re shaking.”

He doesn’t ask. He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine with a grip that’s firm but careful. He leads me through the house, past the quiet rooms, past the shadows of our past, to the master bedroom. The space feels different now. Not haunted by absence, but waiting for presence.

He shuts the door. The click of the latch echoes like a promise.

Cole turns to me, and the adrenaline is still humming under his skin, but his eyes are soft. He steps closer, pressing me gently against the door. His hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, until they rest on my neck. His thumbs trace my pulse points, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath my skin.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

I nod, but my body is still vibrating with the aftermath. The danger. The fear. The sheer, overwhelming relief of him standing in front of me, whole, alive, mine. Again.

His hands move to the hem of my soaked shirt. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes when it’s just us. He lifts the fabric slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, as if he’s memorizing every inch. The cool air hits my skin, but his palms follow immediately, warm and calloused, smoothing over my ribs, my waist, the dip of my stomach. I shiver.

“Let me,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you.”

He peels the shirt off, then unbuckles my jeans, pushing them down my thighs with careful hands. He doesn’t look away. He never does. When I’m bare before him, he steps back just enough to take me in. His gaze is heavy, reverent, hungry in a way that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with claiming, with thanking, with remembering.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice rough. “Always were. Always will be.”

He sinks to his knees.

The position sends a jolt through me. Not from submission, but from the sheer tenderness of it. He doesn’t dive in. He doesn’t rush to taste or satisfy. He presses his forehead to my stomach first, just for a moment, breathing me in. Then his hands slide up my thighs, parting me open with slow, deliberate pressure. His lips hover just above my core, and I gasp as he finally makes contact.

A soft, wet kiss. Right above my slit.

I cry out, fingers tangling in his hair. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time. His tongue traces slow, deliberate circles, just at the edge, building pressure, drawing me out of my head, out of the field, out of the past. He’s mapping me. Remembering me. Worshiping me.

When his tongue finally slips over my clit, I buck against him, a broken sound tearing from my throat. He hums, the vibration sending shockwaves through me. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place, but it’s not forceful. It’s grounding. Like he’s anchoring me to the present. To him.

I’m trembling again, but this time it’s not fear. It’s gratitude. It’s the overwhelming, suffocating realization that he’s here. That he stayed. That he chose me again, after ten years, after everything.

He works me slowly, methodically, building the heat layer by layer. His fingers slide inside me, two at first, stretching me with care, then three, curling them just right. I’m slick, already dripping, and he knows it. He smiles against my skin, a dark, satisfied thing, before driving his fingers deeper, angling them perfectly.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

I open my eyes. His gaze is locked on mine, dark and intense, pupils blown wide. He watches every reaction, every twitch, every tear that escapes. He’s taking it all in. Every gasp. Every shiver. Every silent plea.

When I finally break, it’s not with a shout. It’s with a sob. My body arches, back bowing, fingers gripping his shoulders as the climax rips through me, wave after wave, leaving me breathless and shaking. He doesn’t stop. He keeps his tongue moving, keeps his fingers working, milking every last tremor out of me until I’m completely undone.

Only then does he pull back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands, and strips off his shirt. The fabric hits the floor, and I finally get a full view of him. The scars. The muscle. The way his body bears the weight of a life I wasn’t part of. A jagged line runs along his ribs. Another cuts across his shoulder. His chest is a map of survival. And I want to kiss every one of them.

He undoes his belt. Unzips his pants. Lets them fall. He steps out of them, kicks them away, and stands before me completely bare. The sight of him makes my throat tighten. He’s built like a weapon. Hard. Dangerous. But his hands are shaking slightly. Just a little. He looks at me, and I see the vulnerability he tries to hide. The fear of losing me again. The need to be sure.

He kneels in front of me again, this time not to taste me, but to meet my eyes. He takes my hands, presses them to his chest. I feel his heartbeat. Fast. Steady. Alive.

“I’m not leaving,” he says again, voice raw. “You hear me? I walked away once because I thought I was poison to you. Because I thought you deserved something softer. Something easier. I was wrong. You’re not easy. You’re everything. And I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Ten years or a minute, it doesn’t matter. You’re my home.”

Tears spill over my cheeks. I pull him up, press my hands to his face, and kiss him.

It’s not frantic. It’s not desperate. It’s slow. Deep. A claiming. A thank you. A promise. He tastes like rain and salt and me. His mouth moves against mine with practiced tenderness, his tongue sliding against mine, drawing out a moan I don’t bother to hide. His hands slide down my back, under me, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind him. He carries me to the bed, lays me down, and follows me down, caging me in with his arms.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. He traces the line of my collarbone with his lips. Kisses my shoulder. The curve of my breast. The dip of my stomach. Each touch is deliberate. Each kiss is a vow. When he finally slides between my thighs, he pauses, pressing his forehead to mine, breathing me in.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs.

“I need you,” I whisper. “All of you. Now. Please.”

He nods, and when he enters me, it’s slow. So slow I can feel every inch. The stretch. The heat. The sheer, undeniable rightness of it. I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. He stills completely, eyes closed, jaw tight, holding back, letting me adjust, letting me feel him.

“Look at me,” he says again.

I do. His eyes are dark, wet, filled with something too big for words. Possession. Devotion. Gratitude. He starts to move, just a fraction. A shallow thrust. Then another. Building. Testing. My hips roll to meet him, and he groans, the sound tearing from his chest.

He finds his rhythm. Slow. Deep. Steady. Each stroke is a reminder. Each thrust is a promise. I wrap my legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, needing to feel him all the way inside. My hands slide up his back, over the scars, tracing the ridges of old injuries, and he shudders.

“I remember every one,” I whisper against his mouth. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for them.”

He kisses me, hard and tender all at once. “You were here in my head. Every damn day. You kept me breathing.”

He picks up the pace, just slightly. The bed creaks. My nails dig into his skin. He’s so hard, so full, stretching me in the best way. I’m close again, already, because it’s not just physical. It’s emotional. It’s ten years of absence collapsing into this single, perfect moment. He feels it. He always does.

“Let go,” he murmurs against my neck. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I do. I break. I shatter. I come apart around him, a silent, trembling mess, and he follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, burying his face in my neck as he spills inside me, hot and deep and claiming. He holds me through it. Holds me long after. His weight is perfect. His breathing matches mine. His heart beats against my chest like a drum marking time.

When it’s over, he doesn’t pull out. He just stays buried inside me, one arm locked around my waist, the other tangled in my hair. His lips press to my temple. To my cheek. To my mouth.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, softer now. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

I close my eyes, pressing my face into his chest. The scars press against my skin. The sweat cools. The fear is gone. Replaced by something warm. Something solid. Something that feels like coming back.

“Don’t leave again,” I whisper.

He kisses the top of my head. “I’m not. I’m never leaving again. You’re stuck with me, Emma. Forever.”

I smile against his skin. For the first time in ten years, I believe him. And when I finally drift to sleep, tangled in his arms, surrounded by his scent, his warmth, his quiet breathing, I know one thing for certain.

I’m safe.