Chapter 92: Reid
She’s small in my arms, smaller than I ever let myself picture.
I can feel the curve of her spine through the sweater, the fragile rhythm of her breath against my chest.
This is not the situation I imagined—not how I wanted her near me—but the feel of her stirs something raw and territorial, a pulse that hums like a live wire under my skin.
It’s ugly, possessive, and I don’t try to smother it.
She’s not drunk like the others—just worn down.
I can feel it in the way her body leans against mine, not limp, just heavy with exhaustion.
It’s been too much of a night for anyone: the work, the food, the noise, the panic.
I move one hand to her back, palm open, tracing slow circles over the knit of her sweater.
The motion is instinct more than comfort, but the sound she makes—half sigh, half shiver—feels like a reward.
It’s a gentleness I’ve never given anyone. But she needs it, so I do it.
“You’ll be okay?” I murmur.
She nods, barely, a whisper of movement against my chest.
Her forehead rests against my collarbone, her breath warm through the fabric of my shirt.
A few heartbeats pass before she speaks again.
“I’m sorry.”
And I understand it instantly.
She’s not apologizing for the fear or for being here; she’s apologizing because that’s what she does.
Because she thinks she’s made things worse.
Because she’s afraid she’s broken some invisible rule, that I’ll think less of her for needing something.
I can feel the panic rising in her again—the tight breath, the stiff shoulders, the instinct to pull away before she’s scolded.
“Stop,” I say quietly, before she can start to shake.
Her body goes still.
“Don’t move.”
I reach up, tracing my thumb along her jaw until it brushes the edge of her lower lip. A grounding touch, nothing more.
“This,” I tell her, my thumb still ghosting along her mouth, “is exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
She exhales, trembling, and the sound is enough to quiet the last of my anger.
Her beautiful eyes flicker open; the apology still sits there, unspoken.
“In a few minutes,” I murmur, “Jake will come back and tell us there’s no one out there. We’ll lock the doors, the windows, and you’ll wake up tomorrow safe.”
Her fingers loosen their grip on my shirt. The rigid line of her spine softens, and the apology fades from her eyes.
My hand returns to her back, moving in slow circles again.
Each pass of my palm draws the tension out of her muscles until I can feel her weight settling heavier against me.
Her breathing deepens; her fingers unclench from my shirt.
The storm outside is a low, constant growl.
Inside, the world has gone still.
Her lashes brush my throat when she finally gives in to sleep.
I keep one hand at her back, one at her waist, steady, claiming without pressure.
It’s the strangest thing—how still the world feels when she’s in my arms.
I should move her.
I should put her down.
But I don’t.
I hear him before I see him—footsteps heavy but controlled, the sound of wet shoes on the floorboards.
Then Jake’s shadow fills the doorway. His hair’s damp, a few strands plastered to his forehead. He looks like the storm followed him in.
Our eyes meet.
For a heartbeat, it’s the same look I had earlier—ice over fire, every muscle coiled. The kind of rage that comes from knowing you’ve crossed a line and seeing someone else standing on it too.
Then it shifts. Not gone, just simmering lower.
He takes a slow breath, steps forward, and sits on the bed.
It’s too small for the two of us; the mattress dips, the space vanishes.
Madeline doesn’t stir.
“There was nothing,” he says quietly. “No sign of anyone. Either it was wind or some kid with no sense.”
I nod once. “Everyone else passed out in seconds. Idiots.”
Jake huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh but not quite. Then his eyes drop to her—her hair against my shoulder, her fingers still caught in my shirt.
“And her?”
“She wouldn’t stop shaking,” I answer. “Panicking.”
His jaw tightens. I can see it—it’s killing him, seeing her like this.
Seeing her on me.
My arms around her, my hands on her back.
But he holds it together.
Barely.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low, even. Again, he heard my thoughts.
“I’m holding it for her sake.”
I nod. I understand.
I wanted to hit him earlier. Hard. And if I were standing where he is now, watching him touch her, I don’t know that I’d be able to stop myself either.
So much for focusing on Finn and Liam.
We can’t even get past our own war.
I glance down at her again. Her breathing’s soft now, even. Whatever panic she had’s gone, replaced by that exhausted calm that comes after tears.
Jake moves. Slow. Careful.
He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from her face. His fingers trace lightly along her temple, down the curve of her jaw, and she sighs in her sleep.
I don’t stop him.
I let him.
Because if he feels even a fraction of what I feel when I look at her—
the ache, the need, the twisted pull of wanting to protect and destroy in the same breath—
then I know I won’t be able to keep him from her.
Not forever.
Not even for long.
And that knowledge sits between us like another storm waiting to break.
Time slows until I can hear every sound—the rain at the windows, her shallow breaths, the steady rhythm of Jake beside me.
She’s still in my arms, soft and warm, her face turned toward my throat. The weight of her is enough to quiet everything that’s been burning in me all night.
Jake hasn’t moved much, but I can feel him watching her. After a while his hand reaches out again, brushing through her hair in slow, careful strokes, following it down until his fingertips trace the inside of her arm. Slow. Careful. Reverent in a way that makes my chest ache with anger.
Normally I’d want to break his hand for touching her.
Tonight I don’t move.
Because she’s calm, and that’s all that matters.
For once we want the same thing: her safe, quiet, still between us.
We sit there in the dim light, her caught between us, both of us quiet, both pretending that the world outside this room doesn’t exist.
The tension doesn’t vanish—it just shifts, heavier, quieter, into something like understanding.
After another little while, I shift, ease her from my lap, lay her back on the bed. She stirs once, a soft sound in her throat, but doesn’t wake.
Jake helps without a word, straightening the blanket, tucking it under her arm.
It’s a truce, but not forgiveness.
Two men drawing the same breath for the same girl.
Both of us knowing it won’t last.
When we step out of her room, I look back once.
She’s still there, untouched, perfect, unaware of the two monsters who stood watch over her while she slept.
We make our way down the stairs, through the dark house, double-checking every door, every window, until the night is sealed shut behind us.
Then we leave this place—the quiet, the storm, and her—before either of us decides to turn back.