Relief floods through me as I slowly lift the glass. Once I’ve opened it all the way, I push apart the curtains and let myself inside. As quietly as I can, I close the window and then survey the room. It’s slightly messy with discarded clothes and shoes on the floor. On the dresser there’s an untouched bowl of soup, an unopened box of PopTarts, and a couple bottles of water. Her nightstand is pushed against the door, blocking it.

Somehow, deep in my gut, I know.

That motherfucker hurt her.

I can’t explain how I know. I just do. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading Willa. This is completely out of character for her. Something’s wrong.

Against my better judgment, I kick off my shoes and crawl into bed behind her. She stiffens and a whine filled with terror escapes her.

“Shh,” I rumble. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”

Her body relaxes and then she sniffles. All my anger and rage have taken a back seat to the desire to comfort her. I wrap an arm around her body, pulling her to my chest, and greedily bury my nose in her hair.

God, I’ve missed this—missed her.

I shouldn’t feel so relieved to have her in my arms like this after all she’s done, but I can’t help myself. You can’t turn off feelings with a snap of your fingers. She’s not pushing me away and I certainly don’t see Dempsey or Spencer here holding her. We may not be like we were, but she’s still hurting, and I can make her feel safe.

“Want me to kill him?” My words are soft, though the threat in them is heavy and laced with intent. “I’d take pleasure in it.”

She doesn’t reply, and I’d almost take it for rudeness if not for the fact her fingers have found mine, digging into my flesh like she can keep me from ever leaving her again. In this bubble—this frozen moment of time—I can nearly pretend last night didn’t happen between us. That things are still perfect. That she didn’t betray me and ruin a beautiful, blooming love story.

I let my lips find their way to her neck. Gently, I press a kiss to the warm flesh there. She feels so fucking right in my arms. It’s why it’s so gutting what she did to me. That wasn’t supposed to happen. We were supposed to happen.

“When you’re able to, I need to know what he did, sweetheart. I’ll need to know what I’m going to prison for murder for.”

Her fingers relax and she slides them between mine, squeezing. I grip onto her hand like I have the power to drag her back to a few days ago when she was in my bed where she belonged.