Page 60 of Dreadful

The kit slides off the counter behind me. I don’t remember letting go of it.

I cross the kitchen without deciding to and stop in front of her, close enough that I have to look down to see her face. My hand comes up on its own and stops just short of her cheek—hovering there, not quite touching, like some part of me already knows it’s going to hurt her and can’t make itself be the thing that does.

“Fuck, Bells.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, a fragile curve in the blood-streaked skin. She leans into my palm like it’s the only solid thing left in the room. “I’m fine.”

My thumb strokes the clean line of her cheekbone, just beneath the swelling. “Shit, baby girl.” The words come out rough, shredded by the adrenaline still screaming through my veins.

She turns her face further into my hand, her lips brushing the edge of my palm in a kiss so soft it feels like forgiveness. “Are you okay?”

My eyes won’t leave her. Can’t. Some fucked-up part of my brain is convinced if I look away she’ll vanish—or worse, that bruise will darken, that cut will open wider. The urge to kiss her hits like a physical blow, a drumbeat against my ribs that says mine, alive, here.

“Bishop?” I ask without turning, my gaze locked on hers.

“Fine,” he says from somewhere behind me.

Fuck it.

I cup the back of her neck, my other hand still cradling her face, and tilt her head back. The first touch of my mouth to hers is a shock of warmth in the cold, grey light. Then it’s not enough—never enough with her. I kiss her deeper, tasting blood and salt and Bellamy, and for one fucking second the world narrows to this: the way she opens for me, her tongue meeting mine in a slow, desperate slide that feels less like kissing and more like coming home. Her hands wrap around my wrists, holding on like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.

It’s better than whiskey. Better than any high I’ve ever chased. This woman isn’t just a balm—she’s the goddamn antidote.

“Everyone whole?”

Coco’s voice cuts through the haze, pulling me back from the edge.

We break apart slowly, both breathing unevenly. Around us, my brothers murmur agreements.

“Good.” She yanks open the freezer door. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

I thread my fingers through hers and tug us toward the center island, where I can see her better.

Gage crowds her against the opposite counter, but I can’t let go of her hand. I tune out their murmured conversation and look at my brother instead.

Bishop leans against the opposite counter, closer to the pantry. His jaw is locked tight, gaze fixed somewhere across the dark kitchen.

Coco moves through the cramped space with arms full of frozen vegetables. The bags rattle with cold air and promise of comfort. Gage and I each snag a bag of green beans without a word, plastic crackling under our fingers.

“Here, honey,” she murmurs, holding out a towel-wrapped bag of peas toward Bellamy.

“Oh, thanks.”

Why does her voice sound so small? Irritability sparks behind my ribs. I half-wish I could revive those assholes just to take ‘em out again for hurting her.

Rafe pushes his bag onto the counter with a dull thud as soon as Coco hands it over. She turns to Bishop, concern softening her eyes. “Here ya go, honey. That cut looks nasty. Let your brother patch you up, hm?”

“I’m fine.” He waves a dismissive hand.

They stare at one another, tension swelling in the kitchen.

“Take the damn peas, Bishop.” Coco shoves the bag into his chest.

His fingers close around the plastic, then he tosses it back onto the counter with a hollow thunk and a low scoff.

I scrape my free hand over my face and exhale. “Alright. What’s the damage?”

Rafe shifts, his gaze sliding to Bellamy. “Three outside front.”