What the Moon Made

IN MY ARMS - THEO

Willa goes limp in my arms.

For one brutal second, the entire world stops.

The traffic. The voices. The restless hum of the city.

All of it disappears beneath the faint rhythm of her heart.

Still beating.

Too fast, but steady.

“Willa.”

She doesn’t respond.

Her head falls against my chest, and something dark and violent claws its way up my throat. I force it back down. She needs me calm.

I adjust my hold, keeping one arm beneath her knees and the other firmly around her back. She weighs almost nothing to me. Her body fits against mine far too easily, as if I have carried her this way a hundred times instead of imagining it more often than I care to admit.

Sin is beside me before I call for him.

His eyes move from Willa’s unconscious face to the bruise darkening her cheek.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

The words come out more like a growl than an answer.

He opens the rear door of the waiting car, then reaches for her. “Give her to me.”

“No.”

Sin’s hands stop in midair.

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.

His eyes meet mine for half a second before he steps aside.

I lower Willa onto the back seat, moving carefully so her head doesn’t fall backward. She makes a soft sound when I position her on her side, and every muscle in my body locks.

“I need to check her for injuries,” Sin says.

“She hit her head.”

“You saw it happen?”

“No. But I can smell the blood beneath her hair.”

His expression hardens. “Hospital?”

“No. Call Vale. Have him meet us at the penthouse.”

Sin hesitates.

He knows better than to argue with me, but he also knows Dr. Vale will insist she be taken to a hospital if he finds anything concerning.

“Now, Sin.”

He closes the door and makes the call.

I walk around the car and climb in through the opposite side. Willa is curled awkwardly across the leather, her cheek pressed against the seat.

I lift her head and settle it in my lap.

The car begins moving.

My fingers slide into her hair before I can stop myself.

It is softer than I imagined.

I stroke it away from her face, following the long deep auburn strands from her temple to where they spill across my thigh. Under the passing streetlights, warmer streaks appear in it—copper and honey buried beneath the dark brown.

I noticed them at dinner.

I noticed everything.

Her wide hazel eyes, more green than brown when she was irritated with me. The freckles scattered across her small, slightly upturned nose. The fullness of her mouth when she pressed her lips together to stop herself from smiling. The softness of her cheeks. The stubborn tilt of her chin whenever she thought I was avoiding one of her questions.

Five feet four inches of contradictions.

Quiet but not weak.

Nervous but determined.

Soft, yet sharp enough to challenge me without realizing how few people dare to do it.

Beautiful.

Painfully, impossibly beautiful.

Even now, with tears drying on her skin and a bruise spreading across her cheek, I cannot look away from her.

My thumb brushes gently over her temple.

I have imagined holding her.

I shouldn’t have, but I have.

I imagined pulling her into my arms when she shivered outside the restaurant. I imagined placing my hand at the small of her back as we walked to our table. I imagined her tucked against my side in the private booth, close enough for me to feel every breath she took.

At dinner, I had spent nearly every second restraining myself.

She thought I was flirting with her.

If only she knew how careful I had been.

How many words I swallowed.

How many times I stopped myself from touching her hand across the table.

How badly I wanted to brush that loose strand of hair away from her face when it caught against her lip.

I had been able to hear her heartbeat all evening.

Every nervous flutter.

Every sudden acceleration when I leaned closer.

Every uneven rhythm when she checked her phone and found nothing waiting for her.

Someone had disappointed her.

Someone had hurt her before she ever walked out of that restaurant.

And now someone has put his hands on her.

My gaze returns to the mark on her cheek.

Finger-shaped shadows are beginning to form beneath her skin.

My hand stops moving.

Rage floods through me so suddenly that my vision sharpens.

The city outside becomes painfully clear. Every light. Every sound. Every person moving along the sidewalk. My nails press into my palms as my hands curl into fists.

Someone struck her.

Someone looked at Willa—at this gentle, infuriating, beautiful woman—and decided to cause her pain.

My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.

I will find him.

I will find out exactly what happened.

Then I will make him understand what it feels like to be helpless beneath the hands of something stronger.

Something merciless.

A low sound builds in my chest.

Willa stirs.

Her heartbeat changes.

The sound vanishes instantly.

I force my fingers to relax and place my hand against the side of her head again. Her pulse flutters beneath the delicate skin of her throat. Her breathing remains soft and even.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I focus on the rhythm.

The beast beneath my skin settles, but it does not disappear.

It never does.

“Easy,” I murmur, though I am no longer sure whether I am speaking to her or myself.

I continue stroking her hair for the rest of the drive.

By the time the car pulls beneath the awning of my building, I have committed every sound she makes in her sleep to memory.

Sin opens my door.

“Vale is on his way,” he says. “Ten minutes behind us.”

I nod and slide one arm beneath Willa’s knees.

She folds against me when I lift her. Her head settles into the hollow beneath my shoulder, her breath warming the skin above my collar.

The sensation almost brings me to my knees.

I have held people before.

Carried the injured.

Carried the dead.

No one has ever felt like this in my arms.

Like something precious.

Like something that belongs here.

The thought is dangerous.

I hold her tighter anyway.

The lobby is nearly empty at this hour. Liam stands behind the concierge desk, his usual pleasant expression disappearing when he sees me carrying an unconscious woman through the doors.

“Good evening, Mr. De Luca.”

“Liam.”

His eyes flick toward Willa’s face and then immediately return to mine.

He looks confused.

Concerned.

Smart enough not to ask.

“Would you like me to call—”

“No.”

Sin crosses the lobby ahead of us and summons the private elevator.

Liam gives a small nod. “Of course, sir.”

I start toward the elevator.

“Mr. De Luca?”

I look back.

Liam’s gaze rests on Willa again. “I hope she’s all right.”

So do I.

“She will be.”

It is not reassurance.

It is a promise.

The elevator doors open, and Sin holds them while I step inside. He presses the button for the penthouse before taking his usual position beside the control panel.

Neither of us speaks during the ascent.

Willa shifts against my chest.

Her nose brushes the side of my neck.

My entire body goes still.

She exhales softly and settles closer.

Sin looks determinedly at the elevator doors.

If I detect even the slightest hint of amusement from him, I will throw him down the elevator shaft.

The doors finally open directly into my apartment.

Sin steps out first and checks the room out of habit, though no one enters my home without my knowledge.

“Vale will come straight up,” he says. “I’ll send him in.”

“Find out where she lives.”

His eyes meet mine. “You think it happened there?”

“The bruise is fresh. She was crying, disoriented and walking alone. Start with the restaurant. Trace the bus route. Pull the surrounding cameras.”

“And when I find him?”

My arms tighten around her.

“Give me his name.”

Sin studies my face, understanding exactly what I’m asking.

Then he nods. “Good night, Theodore. I’ll be in my apartment if you need me.”

I carry Willa down the hallway toward my bedroom.

Her heartbeat fills the silence.

It is slower now.

Steadier.

I push open the bedroom door and cross to the bed. Lowering her onto the mattress feels wrong. The moment her warmth leaves my chest, every instinct I possess demands that I pick her up again.

I ignore it.

She needs rest.

I remove her shoes first, setting them neatly beside the bed. Her clothing is rumpled, and the fabric at her back is damp with sweat from her frantic walk through the city.

I open one of my drawers and take out a clean black T-shirt.

Then I stop.

She is unconscious.

Undressing her feels like a violation, no matter my reason for doing it.

I look at the bruise on her face.

At the tear tracks staining her cheeks.

Someone has already taken enough from her tonight.

I will not be another man who disregards her right to choose.

But Vale will need to examine her for injuries, and she cannot sleep comfortably in these clothes. I move slowly, deliberately, giving her body the same respect I would want someone to show her if I were not here.

I unfasten her clothing without letting my gaze wander.

Still, I cannot avoid seeing everything.

The curve of her waist.

The softness of her stomach.

The smooth expanse of fair skin marked only by the faintest shadows where the fabric pressed against her.

My pulse turns heavy.

I look away.

She is vulnerable.

She is injured.

She trusts me—whether she knows it or not.

That is all that matters.

I leave her bra and panties in place and pull my shirt carefully over her head. The fabric swallows her. The hem falls nearly to her knees, making her look smaller than she is.

Something possessive moves through me at the sight of her wearing my clothing.

I crush it immediately.

This is not the time.

I pull back the blankets and lift her once more, placing her beneath them. Her head sinks into my pillow. Her hair spreads across it in loose brown waves.

For a moment, I only stand there.

This morning, she was a name attached to an interview request.

Tonight, she is sleeping in my bed, wearing my shirt, while I contemplate murder.

Life has a sense of humor after all.

I turn on the bedside lamp, keeping the light low enough that it won’t hurt her eyes if she wakes. Then I check her breathing one more time before leaving the door partly open.

Dr. Vale will be here soon.

Until then, I need distance.

I need control.

I walk to the bar and pour two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass.

The first swallow burns.

It does nothing.

Through the walls, I can still hear Willa’s heart beating in my bedroom.

I stare out over the city, watching millions of lights glitter beneath me. Somewhere among them is the man responsible for the bruise on her face.

He is probably telling himself it was an accident.

A moment of anger.

A mistake.

My fingers tighten around the glass.

A thin crack runs through the crystal.

No.

Striking Willa was not a mistake.

It was a decision.

And soon, he will have to live with mine.