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But even after they leave, Emmalina makes no moves to return to the house. Neither does she turn to head for the “power generator” that’s actually the door to the bunker. She’s quiet and still, lifting her shimmering gaze from the road until she’s staring out into the sage and sienna layers of the canyon. I give her the moment, relating to how her spirit needs a second for a reset, using her beauty for the purposes of my own.

Yeah…she’s my perfect meditation.

The maitri of her graceful profile, from the top of her strong forehead to the gentle curve of her gorgeous chin.

The shamatha of the air she takes in, her parted lips like rose petals, her rising chest like hills of heaven.

The chakras she aligns through every inch of me, just by being near…being here.

Namaste. Nirvana. Perfection.

She’s all of that and more…

Which makes it so damn hard when I can’t make the same happen for her. Not wholly. Not right now.

I can only try my best right now, hoping to make a little of it more bearable by drawing her close to me as the twilight descends around us. As the cicadas start to sing and the canyon breezes blend with the ocean winds, I lean in until my lips meet her ear and rasp just one syllable to her.

“Hey.”

She snuggles in, fitting her head beneath my jaw, before whispering, “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“I will be,” she supplies. “Eventually.” A cheerless sigh. “Once Fa-Fa’s submarine hits bottom, what’ll come back up is the grouchy sea witch known as my mother.”

I chuckle only because she does. “Funny how life’s a trade-off that way.”

“Whaaaat?” she rebuts, softly teasing. “You mean I can’t have calorie-free cake?”

“Or fire-engine-red leathers.”

An open glower—mostly because she really asked for, and was denied, the impractical outfit. “You’re a killjoy.” She pouts.

“And you’re stunning in this sunset.”

“And now you’re just being impossibly perfect.”

Cocky snort time. “Yeah, well. It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s—”

“Hey!”

Foley’s bellow not only intercepts the kiss I’m getting ready to lay on my wife, it grabs and twists at the center of my gut like one of those medieval pole weapons with the blades that spring out once the lance is thrust forward. And goddamnit, has Foley stabbed in.

Because he doesn’t sound right. At all.

He’s…scared.

No. Beyond that.

As he rushes up to us, his face verifies the theory. His face—which would be as pale as his own ass if it wasn’t covered in rivers of blood due to a nasty blow across his left temple.

“Sawyer?” Emma rakes a horrified gape over him. “Holy shit. What happened?”

Perturbingly, he returns her scrutiny. Drives a glare at her that seems full of accusation before surrendering to clear confusion. “Fuck,” he growls.

“Sawyer?” Her echo is twice as acute as before.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he counters.