The Quietest Frequency: Tess
K.C.’s chest rumbled under my ear, a slow, grounding vibration that felt more real than anything Leon had just said. For the first time in days, the air didn’t feel charged with hidden threats. The bungalow felt like mine again — or, rather, it felt like ours. “A few days?” K.C. repeated, resting his chin on my head. His arms tightened around me, careful of his own bandaged shoulder, but possessive, like he was afraid I’d slip out of his grasp. “I think I can manage that. No laptops. No burner phones. No crazed billionaires with a vendetta.” “And no Caucasian Shepherds,” I teased, looking up at him. He let out a short, dry laugh. It was the first genuine sound of amusement I’d heard from him since the bridge. “Especially not those. I’ll have to tell the boys they’ve been demoted to ov
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