I wake up slowly, my head resting on Locke’s bare shoulder, the warm, steady rise and fall of his chest acting as my personal space-heater against the chill air of the room.
For a long moment, I simply lie there in the quiet, letting my fingers rest flat against my lower stomach. As my mind wakes up, the lingering thoughts of the middle of the night return with a heavy, uncompromising weight:
Cain Morgan tied to a steel frame in an oil-stained bay, his body broken by the men he trusted, and Becca fleeing alone into the dark with a baby who bears Knox’s blood.
Locke’s arm tightens slightly around my waist, his heavy forearm warm against my side. His fingers gently brush against my hip, his voice a morning rasp.
“You’re thinking again, baby,” he says softly, his eyes opening slowly, heav
