Here she is, safe and sound, nestled into him, her head over his chest, fingers curled into shirt, her warmth melting into him beneath the trapped heat of the duvet.
And he surrenders entirely to the wonder of her… the more he feels her, the more he drifts into a state of pure, unbroken bliss, his Angel, infinite and unfathomable.
Yet she is set apart for him, achingly familiar, as though their souls have always known, always waited,
until they melt into one, becoming a love that breathes, deep, and eternal.
He feels her stir against him, her breathing slow and even. He brushes a kiss into her hair and pulls her deeper into his arms, his eyelids weighted with sleep. Even then, he forces himself to remain awake, watchful, until dawn carries them far from here.
His gaze drifts into the shadows untouched by the lantern.
Worry tightens within him for her safety.
For the dreams that drew her to Erriador. For the wedding she has already begun to imagine,
with the blessings of family and friends.
On his side, though, there is no one.
Only Elk, his father's old friend and now his superior, the head of the Secret Intelligence Services.
A man of few words, distant by nature, yet he had tried to show up in his own way when his father died and he was sixteen.
Still, he doubts Elk would ever attend a wedding, unmarried in his late sixties, and wholly given over to his work.
He rubs the silk of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, unease creeping in as his thoughts drift back to the connection Raka had spoken of.
A kingpin, a name feared in the underworld,
and yet to the world, Sam Ishmael, the respectable businessman.
His jaw tightens at the memory, the line cutting off in a rush of noise, her terrified voice the last thing he heard.
He had been at the maintenance store, dealing with a client dissatisfied with the work, yet vague and unhelpful, turning everything into a matter of budget instead.
It has been such a trivial matter, and it nearly cost him his Angel.
He draws in a shaky breath, his spine stiffening at the cold flood of what-ifs.
"Rhett…" Her soft, sleep-heavy voice draws him back into her warmth.
"Yes, Angel?" he says quietly, breathing in the delicate rose scent that lingers on her.
"You haven't slept…" Her voice fades, as though drifting in and out of sleep.
"I couldn't," he says.
She tilts her chin against him, meeting his eyes, the soft, luminous intensity of her marmoris gaze melting him, soothing him even as it kindles something fierce within.
Her gaze follows the path of her fingers as they skim his lips and drift along his chin.
Her eyes lift once more. "It's going to be fine."
He lifts her hand and brushes a kiss against her fingers, praying it will be so.
His heart breaking at his own helplessness before the vast web of politics and power Raka moves within,
where one fracture can unravel everything in a violent, consuming surge.
"What time is it?" she murmurs, and a sudden emptiness seeps through him as she shifts away to reach for his phone.
"It's almost four in the morning." She yawns, the screen going dark as she sets it back on the nightstand, and he pulls her into him again without thinking,
holding her close as she settles against him.
"Where do we go from here?" she says softly, her hand resting over his heart.
"Somewhere far," he murmurs. "Somewhere safe."
He feels the quiet she sinks into again, not sleep, but a lingering guilt for something that was never her fault, never hers to control.
He presses his cheek into her hair and holds her tighter, a silent reassurance, he's here, he's got her,
and none of this guilt belongs to her.
A soft sigh slips from her. "I hope we could settle somewhere in the countryside."
"A countryside?" he echoes, amused.
"Mmhmm," she hums softly.
"And what exactly are we doing in the countryside?" he asks,
a playful lilt to his voice.
"We'll get married," she whispers.
"And?" His fingers thread through the soft curls of her hair, gently easing out the knots.
"We'll live in a beautiful cottage," she says softly. "Maybe with a little garden."
"And?" he asks again.
"And a happily ever after," she murmurs.
"And?" he presses, still teasing.
He lets out a quiet chuckle as she huffs.
"You tell me." Her gaze lifts to meet his,
her eyes glinting with dreamy excitement. "What's your plan for us?"
"Mine's very simple," he says quietly.
"We'll get married,
and settle into a beautiful cottage..."
"And?" A teasing smile tugs at her lips.
"And... I'll make love to you until everything falls away," he murmurs, his breath deepening. "Until nothing remains but us."
A flush of pink colors her cheeks, her heart beating faster against him. The realization shudders through him, how close she is, her soft warmth pressed to him.
With her, sheer willpower fails to tame the heat, the unguarded wildness that unravels inside him. All his life, he has remained careful, controlled, disciplined against the destructive habits the world lays in wait.
But with his fiancée, it is as though red poppies grow over the war-torn fields within him. Only God can root him to any semblance of sanity. For he is utterly, irrevocably in love with her, so protective, and so fiercely possessive of her.
"And?" she whispers, nestled against his chest.
"And…" he draws it out, and she looks up at him with adorable curiosity.
"We'll have..." he starts, then stops as a low rumble of engines builds in a distance.
His spine stiffens, and she frowns as he sits up immediately. His pulse spikes, every muscle tensing with the refined instinct of an agent, sharpened over years.
He doesn't have to explain. She goes still beside him, the predatory growl rising louder, the air between them thickening, dark, heavy, like a storm ready to break.
His hand slips beneath the pillow, closing around the SIG Sauer, the motion silent and precise. He's on his feet the next beat.
A quick glance outside the window reveals headlights slicing through the dense blue fog of early dawn.
Neva is already moving. His weapons settle into place as he pulls on his jacket and boots. When he turns, she's dressed,
but her composure slips as her trembling fingers fumble with her laces.
"Come on," Rhett says as she stands, her hand locked in his as they head for the door, the ground vibrating beneath the approaching convoy.
They've found them. But they won't reach them, not while he's alive.