“No arguments,” I said in a gruff voice. My finger slipped away from her mouth slowly, and her eyes were huge when she looked up at me.
“No arguments,” she agreed quietly.
Paige’s words swam through my head as I fixed her a plate and brought it to where she was propped up against my headboard. With perfect clarity, I understood her protective instincts toward Isabel. Not because she wasn’t strong or because she couldn’t handle herself. But because there was some soul-deep recognition that she was mine to protect.
That if anyone upset her, I’d make them wish they were never born.
Only once in my life had I ever felt like that. I’d married her. Loved her. And when I’d lost her, I mourned ever feeling that way again.
But as I watched Isabel eat, drink some water, and as I watched her hug my daughter good night like she was something precious, I already knew that somehow, by some magic, some miracle, it was happening again.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have terrified me more.
ISABEL
I managed every wake-up just fine.
Every three hours, Aiden pulled me from a deep sleep, surrounded in sheets that smelled like him. He never touched my face again, simply called my name or laid a gentle hand on top of the covers over my shoulder. His questions were innocuous—the year, my middle name, where I worked. At one point, he gave me more painkillers and a new ice pack for my wrist, and even with the frigid cold against my skin, I fell right back asleep.
Each time, I managed fine. So did he.
Until the last one.
No dreams were happening because I was too exhausted, too sore. But the last time he woke me up, it was still pitch-black in the room with only a weak path of light coming from the hallway. I’d hardly moved on the king-size mattress, sticking to one side and my back because my hip was too sore to roll to the other side.
His voice, low and quiet, pierced through the haze of sleep, and I found myself humming contentedly. My name on his lips made me want to curl up like a cat in his lap and arch my body into the sound, roll my back into his hands.
“Isabel, come on, you gotta wake up for me.”
This time, his hand was skimming down my upper arm in small circles, and the calluses on his palms felt delicious on my skin.
“Hmm, that feels nice,” I heard myself say.
His hand only froze for a moment but then continued. “Does it?” he asked quietly.
I pressed my face into his pillow and inhaled. I kept my eyes firmly shut because if I was dreaming this, I refused to wake up. I wanted to allow myself this moment of a loose, sleepy tongue, where I could say the things in my head without fear of embarrassment.
“Everything you do feels nice,” I murmured. “I wish you’d do more.”
Aiden was quiet for a moment, and cautiously, I opened my eyes in narrow slits to see his face in the dim light of the room. It was so terribly intimate, how closely he crouched down by the bed. He didn’t sit on the mattress to possibly cause me discomfort. He’d given up his bed so I could get better sleep.
His profile was visible as I studied him, but I couldn’t tell where he was looking. Maybe he was watching his hand on my arm because he moved from my upper arm, down around the curve of my elbow, allowing his fingertips to drag softly over my forearm, stopping just shy of the wrapping of my wrist. Then back up.
“Where did you sleep?” I asked him.
“The couch.”
My lips curled up slightly. “You fit on that thing?”
“Not very well,” he admitted. “But I’ve slept in much worse places.”
I adjusted my head and stared openly at him. “Thank you for doing that for me.”
The thick column of his throat moved in a heavy swallow, but he nodded. “I told you, I owe you, Isabel.”
“No, you don’t.” I paused. “I did what anyone would’ve—“
The pressure of his hand increased as it coasted back up over my shoulder, and that was where it came to rest, the blunt edges of his fingertips tangling with my hair.
“I’m not talking about what anyone else would’ve done. I’m talking about what you did for Anya. And me.” He shifted his weight, and I finally got a clearer look at his eyes. He wasn’t looking at his hand; he was looking at me. “Thank you, Isabel. I need you to hear me say that.”
I’d never had anyone look at me like Aiden was, and I had no clue what to make of it.
This wasn’t reality, this tiny moment in his bedroom. And if I thought too hard about how little we knew about each other, I’d question my sanity. But he was looking at me like I was unexpected, and he wasn’t sure how to handle me the right way. Aiden was looking at me like I belonged in his home, in his bed, and he just might be okay with that.
I let out a shaky breath. “You’re welcome.”
“What’s your favorite food?” he asked suddenly.
I blinked at the change in topic, the change in tone. It was the only reason I answered honestly. “Strawberry Pop-Tarts.”
Now it was Aiden’s turn to blink. “No, it’s not.”
“You don’t get to argue with me about it.”
“No one’s favorite food is Pop-Tarts after the age of seven.”
“Well, mine is,” I said indignantly. “They’re delicious, and maybe you just haven’t had one in a long time so you don’t remember.”
The smile that spread over his face was warm, and it made me all gooey inside, and I pressed my now-hot face back into the pillow that smelled like him. His warm smile turned into a low, amused chuckle.
“I had no idea you were this judgmental,” I teased. “You better tell me your favorite food now.”
“You’re very demanding when you wake up.”
That was because my filter was gone. That process had been a slow one, pushing through embarrassment, pushing through the first unsteady weeks, then the tiptoeing into a more balanced relationship. He didn’t even realize that this was me, wide open.
But I did. And that was why it mattered, these quiet moments.
“Cranberry juice?” I asked.
He laughed, eyes tracing my features. “Getting warmer.”
I had to bury my face into his pillow to hide my pleased smile.
Aiden moved from a crouching position to sitting on the floor, his back braced against the nightstand, and he turned his head to face me. I tucked my good hand up under the pillow and imagined that this was just … normal. The two of us trading whispered questions in bed. He grimaced, sending a glare over his shoulder at the table.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just the handle digging into my back.” His eyes traced my face. “I’m too old to be sitting in places like this.”
I pulled in a deep breath and decided not to weigh the wisdom of what was about to come out of my mouth. “You can lay up here,” I whispered. “On top of the blanket,” I rushed to add when his gaze sharpened.
After a weighty silence, Aiden finally answered. “You know I can’t.”
My lips pursed thoughtfully. “What if I draw an invisible line you’re not allowed to cross?”
His eyelids fell closed, his chest rose and fell on a slow, steady inhale and exhale. “You are dangerous to my mental health, Isabel Ward.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.