Chapter 676

She blindly reached out across the mattress.

The sheets were cold. The space beside her was empty.

A massive, suffocating wave of panic slammed into her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Then the heavy oak door pushed open.

Dallas walked in, holding a ceramic mug of warm milk.

He took one look at her wide, terrified eyes and her shaking hands.

He set the mug on the nightstand so quickly some of the milk sloshed over the rim. He closed the distance to the bed in two strides.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled her entirely against his chest. His thick arms wrapped around her trembling shoulders. He tucked her head under his chin and pressed his face into her dark hair, careful to avoid her healing gunshot wound.

“I’m right here,” Dallas whispered.

His voice was a deep, steady rumble that vibrated through his chest and directly into her skin. “You are safe. That psycho cannot find us here.”

Eliza’s hands shot up. She grabbed handfuls of his black t-shirt and twisted the fabric until her knuckles turned stark white.

The dam broke.

The tears spilled over her lashes, hot and fast. She buried her face in his chest and let out all the suffocating fear, the exhaustion, and the sheer trauma of the last forty-eight hours.

Dallas didn’t shush her. He didn’t tell her to be brave.

He simply held her. He used his rough, calloused thumb to gently wipe the tears from her cheeks, his dark eyes heavy with guilt for putting her through this hell.

He reached down and pulled the thick cashmere blanket up from the foot of the bed, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders and cocooning her in its warmth. He handled her as though she were made of spun glass.

Eliza slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were red and swollen.

She looked at his face — pale from the blood loss, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. She raised a trembling hand and let her fingertips trace the fresh, angry red scrape across his brow bone.

The physical contact, the undeniable proof that he was real and breathing, shattered the last of her defenses.

Dallas turned his head and pressed his lips to the palm of her hand. A kiss of absolute, desperate devotion.

Eliza surged upward. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth hard against his.

It was a messy, salt-stained kiss that tasted of tears. There was no desire in it — only the frantic, desperate need to confirm that they were both still alive. Dallas responded instantly, keeping his hands carefully away from her injured shoulder while his mouth was demanding and hot, anchoring her to the present moment.

When they finally broke apart, Eliza rested her forehead against his collarbone and listened to the steady, powerful thud of his heart. Her breathing slowed. The panic retreated.

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