It was the first and last time he would ever give a fuck what anyone else might think or feel about how he went about protecting his woman. His treasure.
“Do you want to know when I realized I was falling in love with you?”
Nasa froze in the midst of scrunching a towel through Dillon's fair hair. His entire body tensed in response, waiting to hear her tell him.
It took him a breathless minute to realize she'd asked him a question.
“I do.”
She rolled her lips under her teeth, her fingers nervously tracing circles over his heart as though she was uncertain about how he felt.
“The night I woke up from my last nightmare, when I told you about how I had dreams of being in the hospital all alone with Ghost?”
Nasa swallowed hard, remembering exactly what she'd told him.
“You said you were looking for a dragon.”
Cheeks rosy, Dillon nodded. “When I woke up all I could think about was finding you because with you, I'd be safe. Then I opened the door, and you were already there.”
The importance of what she told him—that she'd felt that way even before he'd put his hands on her, before her second session with Collette, before the massage... incredible.
“I'll be your dragon, Dillon,” Nasa murmured, closing the scant distance between them to press his mouth against hers, whispering to her in between kisses. “No other treasure in the world could possibly be safer or more loved than mine.”
From a breath away, Nasa watched her pupils flare and constrict, Dillon's happiness and absolute adoration shining back at him as the gold flecks in her eyes flashed.
“I love you, too,” Dillon told him, the softly spoken words snaking around his heart like silk covered chains that would bind him to her for as long as he lived.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PEN
“There’s a note.” Nasa told him, reaching out to grip his shoulder. His enormous paw was probably the only thing that kept Pen from swaying on his feet when he saw the slip of paper sticking out from the velvet.
Pen didn't even know what it said, but his heart was racing with fear. “You read it?”
“I did. There's not much there, but it's important.”
Pen nodded a little too quickly, a tremor quaking through his hand before he could stop it.
Afraid he'd drop the case and shatter the pen, he snapped it shut and tucked it inside his cut.
There wasn't a doubt in his mind who'd wrote the message, but as he read it once, twice, and a third time, Pen found himself getting irrationally pissed off again.
“I didn't run the number,” Nasa told him quietly. “And I don't understand why Ghost would pass this along after everything he did to keep us from finding Wren in the first place, but it wasn't my call to make.”
Pen stared so hard at the swirling loops and distinctive curls, they blurred. He didn't give a single fuck about why Ghost let him have this, not right now.
“Thanks,” he managed to force out, finding it harder and harder to breathe as hope started to slither through his defenses.
Nasa squeezed his shoulder hard enough to get Pen's attention, forcing him to drag his gaze away from the note.
“Whatever you need next, we're all here.”
Throat to tight to speak, all he could do was nod. Not wanting an audience if this turned out to be some kind of joke, or just another way for Ghost to fuck him over, Pen left the happy atmosphere of the family meal about to happen and retreated upstairs to his room.
He closed the door and leaned back against it, looking at the bookshelf where he kept his collection of all the glass pieces Wren deemed too flawed or poorly made to have sold. He had cups, a bowl full of marbles and colorful beads, animal figurines, a vase or two, and some plates.
So focused on dealing with the aftermath of the Leviathans’ attack on the compound, on getting Damon and Saint back safe, Pen hadn't noticed Wren was gone until it was too late.
She'd disappeared back into WITSEC, all her clothes and personal items gone from the house she'd rented, her studio cold and dark, and per the rules of the program, Wren hadn't left him with any way to contact her to tell her what a fucking prick he'd been.
After everything that happened, the fragile, flawed glass was all he'd had left of her.
Now, he had a note and a number, and part of him was terrified to make the call. Pen couldn't count the nights he'd dreamed of finding her.
Of opening his eyes to see she was still curled up beside him on the porch swing, her hair trying to escape the braid she'd twisted it into.
Of walking into her studio to see her with a blow torch in hand, huge welding goggles on her face, and her tongue poked out to touch the corner of her lips as she concentrated.
But every time, he'd wake up alone, and she was gone. If this turned out to be another dream...
Pen blew out a harsh breath and staggered over to sit on the unmade bed, bracing his elbows on his knees as he held the note in one hand, and his phone in the other.
His thumb hovered over the screen, lips dry, heart pounding so hard he could feel it knocking against his ribs.
“Fuck,” he hissed furiously. Three years of waiting and he finally had a goddamn number to call. “Sack up, you coward.”
Pen hit the damn button, and put the phone to his ear. Just when he was sure he was about to be sent to voicemail, the call connected.
“Hello?” The quiet, uncertain murmur hit him, and every muscle in his body tightened in answer. Pen slammed his eyes shut, forcing every other sound away to focus on the
