Storm-Worn Hearts
“One night at a time.”
Dawson’s eyes closed. His hands tightened slightly at my waist. And slowly, his breathing deepened, not peaceful, not perfect, but real. He slept again, held in the fragile shelter of my presence.
I lay awake for a long time, staring into the dark. Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, a man with storm grey eyes finally rested, and I listened to the soft sound of his sleep while fear paced the perimeter like a predator.
Somewhere out there, Trent had spoken my name into a microphone like a promise. And I knew, with aching certainty, that the next line he crossed would not be a porch light. It would be blood.
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