The rain had stopped, but the air inside the safehouse was thick—charged, heavy with adrenaline and exhaustion.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling slightly, replaying the chaos of the night. The sound of sirens, the shadows of intruders, the near misses—it was all too real.
Adrian leaned against the doorframe, watching me, his expression unreadable but softer than I'd ever seen. The predator, the control, the steel—they were there, but tempered now by something fragile, something human.
"You shouldn't be out of bed," he said quietly.
"I needed to… breathe," I whispered. "Process."
He crossed the room slowly, settling beside me. His hand hovered near mine, then, finally, he let it rest there—warm, grounding, possessive.
"You scared me," he admitted, voice low, almost fragile. "I've never felt so powerless. And you… you held it together. You survived. I didn't deserve that."
"Adrian," I murmured, turning to face him. "We survived together. You didn't fail."
His gaze softened, and for the first time, I saw him not as Adrian Blackwood—the untouchable, commanding, ruthless—but as a man who carried fear, love, and loyalty all at once.
"I couldn't lose you," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Not now. Not ever."
The words hung between us, heavy with truth. I leaned into him instinctively, forehead resting against his chest, heartbeat syncing with his. "Then don't," I murmured.
His arms wrapped around me finally, not just protective but claiming, careful but absolute. "I won't," he promised. "No one will touch you. No one will take you. You're mine."
The vulnerability in his voice, the raw honesty in his eyes, dissolved any lingering doubts I had. The world outside could wait. The threats could wait.
For this moment, there was only us.
Only the closeness, the warmth, the quiet pulse of two people standing together after fire, chaos, and danger.
And I realized then—Adrian Blackwood's strength wasn't just in control, influence, or power.
It was in the choice he made to lay it all down, to let himself feel, to let me in.
And I had no intention of letting go.