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His eyes flutter open, and he looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. “You’re safe,” he says again, and then his eyes close and he doesn’t answer anymore.

***

The hospital is white and bright and smells like antiseptic.

I sit beside Maxim’s bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, counting each breath like it’s a prayer. The doctors say he’ll live. They say the wounds were serious but not fatal, that he lost a lot of blood but they’ve stabilized him, that he needs rest and time and he’ll be fine.

I haven’t left his side since they brought him in.

Ethan comes by periodically, checking on both of us. He’s bruised and battered, but he’s alive, and he keeps telling me that the agency is handling everything. Callum’s organization is being dismantled, his men are being arrested, and the threat has been neutralized.

He also tells me that I’m free.

“You can go home,” he says, standing in the doorway of Maxim’s room. “The agency has arranged transportation back home. Your family has been informed that you’re safe. You can leave tonight if you want.”

I look at him, then back at Maxim’s still form on the bed.

“Davina,” Ethan says gently. “You don’t have to stay. This man, he’s not your responsibility. You’ve been through enough. Let us take you home.”

He’s right. I should leave. Except somewhere between the arguments and the revelations and the nights in his bed, I stopped seeing him as just my captor. I started seeing him as the man who protected me, who fought for me, who nearly died trying to save me.

I started seeing him as someone I might actually want.

“I’m staying,” I say.

Ethan sighs. “Davina—”

“I’m staying,” I repeat. “That’s my choice. You can’t make me leave.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but something in my face must convince him it’s useless. He nods slowly and steps back.

“I’ll check on you tomorrow,” he says. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“I know. Thank you, Ethan. For everything.”

He leaves, and I’m alone with Maxim again.

The hours pass slowly. Nurses come and go, checking his vitals, adjusting his IV, making notes on his chart. I barely notice them. I’m too focused on his face, willing his eyes to open, willing him to wake up and tell me everything is going to be okay.

It’s almost dawn when he finally stirs.

His hand moves first, twitching against the bed. Then his head turns slightly, and his brow furrows like he’s trying to remember where he is. His eyes open slowly, blinking against the light, and for a moment they’re unfocused, confused.

Then they find me. “Davina?”

“I’m here.” My voice cracks on the words. “I’m right here.”

He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to convince himself I’m real. Then his hand moves again, reaching for me, and I grab it without hesitation.

“You came,” I say. “You came for me.”

“Always,” he says, and his voice is rough and weak, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. “I will always come for you.”

I’m crying again, but this time it’s different.

“I’m staying,” I tell him. “When you get out of here, I’m staying with you.”

He stares at me, and I can see the question in his eyes. The doubt. The fear that this is just gratitude, or trauma, or some misguided sense of obligation.