The silence in the room isn't quiet anymore. It’s charged with an electric heat that rivals the flames roaring in the grate.
Locke doesn't move for ten heartbeats. His eyes travel over every inch of me, from the slope of my shoulders down to my bare feet. There’s no trace of the exhausted, sick girl he’s had to nurse for months; the firelight catches the returning flush in my skin, tracing the curves of a woman who is whole again.
When his eyes finally rise to meet mine, the air in his chest hitches in a low, rough exhale.
"Zara..."
"No talking," I say, my eyes locked on his. "No club. No Willow. No chemo. Just you and me."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
Locke closes the distance between us in two long, deliberate strides. He reaches for the hem of his heavy black sweater, tugging
