Page 44 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

“You are. I can see it.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Talk to me.”

I swallow hard. “I killed a man today.”

“You did.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that I didn’t hesitate?”

Something dark and understanding moves through his eyes. “No, cosita. It doesn’t.”

“Because you know what I am.”

“Because I know what you had to become.” He presses his forehead to mine. “There’s a difference.”

My throat burns. I don’t deserve his gentleness. Don’t deserve the way he holds me like I’m something precious instead of something broken. But I’m too tired to argue, too wrung out to fight the relief of being caught.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

I want to tell him I can’t sleep. That every time I close my eyes, I see Mutt’s face, feel the resistance of the blade, hear the wet gurgle of his last breath. Not because I regret it or feel bad about it, but because I wish I could do it again rather than relive it in my mind.

But Walker pulls me down onto the bed, arranges us so my head rests on his chest, and wraps his arm around me like a barricade against the world.

And against all odds, I sleep.

****

Dawn arrives like a warning.

Grey light seeps through the blinds, painting stripes across Walker’s chest. He’s already awake. I can tell by the steadiness of his breathing, the way his fingers trail absent patterns on my shoulder.

“How long have you been up?” I murmur.

“A while.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching you sleep.” His voice is rough. “Making sure you didn’t disappear again.”

I prop myself up on one elbow. “I’m here.”

“Yeah.” He catches a strand of my hair, twirls it around his finger. “You are.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then his jaw hardens, and I watch him shift from the man who held me through the night into the Nomad. The weapon. The Judge.

“Meeting’s in an hour,” he says. “Savage wants everyone in the main room.”

I nod and slide out of bed. My clothes from yesterday are crumpled on the floor—leather mini, lace top, everything still carrying the faint copper tang of blood. I stare at them.

“I can’t wear these.”

Walker opens a drawer and tosses me a black t-shirt and a pair of boxers that are three sizes too big. “Borrow mine.”

I pull them on, rolling the waistband until they stay in place. The shirt hangs past my thighs, and I catch Walker watching me with an expression that’s half hunger, half something dangerously soft.

“Don’t start,” I warn.

“Wasn’t going to.” He grins. “Okay, I was. But I’ll behave.”

“Since when?”