When I was seven, my mother told me monsters weren’t always under the bed.

Sometimes, they made breakfast for you. Kissed your forehead. Paid the bills.

Sometimes, they smiled while they destroyed you.

She died two months later.

Car crash, they said.

Single vehicle. Late at night. No witnesses.

But I know better.

She was trying to run.

From what, she never said.

But I remember the bruises she’d hide, the whispers on the phone, the way she flinched when the doorbell rang. And I remember the way her hands shook the night she gave me the silver ring.

“If anything ever happens to me,” she whispered, voice trembling, “you keep this safe. It belonged to my mother. And her mother before that. It will always find its way home.”

I lost the ring the day we buried her.

Lost myself, too.

Now, nearly thirteen years later, I was sitting in a stranger’s house except Alex Morales wasn’t a stranger anymore. Not after what happened between us. Not after the way he held me that night at the hotel like I was something breakable… and precious.

I knew that Alex was different from the portrayals people made of him. He was a hot blooded killer who ironically had a soft heart.

That was what terrified me.

One moment he cared and the nect, he didn’t.

I still remembered how he turned away from me at the shelter without an iota of concern in his eyes after shoving the burner into my hand.

If he wanted me to marry him, how would I manage his 'neither hot nor cold' attitude towards me?

***

The morning had that heavy silence after a storm—wet, gray, and full of the things we weren’t saying.

He made coffee.

I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and stared out the window, watching fog roll off the trees.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

No.

Not even close.

“Yeah,” I lied.

He nodded, not pushing. That was his thing—he gave me space when I needed it. And that space somehow made him even more dangerous.

Because it made me want to step into it.

“Marry me Millie,” he said. Just like that. “In name only. Trust me it'll be an agreement between us...just that.”

I turned to face him and stared into him for so long that I saw him flinch.

“You want to play house with the girl your enemy used to chain to a bed?”

His jaw tensed. “No. I just want to protect you. The marriage would...would....give you immunity.”

He stuttered as he tried to explain.

It seemed that even the idea of marriage sounded strange to him but there was no other option.

“I don’t want another man owning me.”

“I’m not him.”

God, I wanted to believe that.

I wanted to believe that this wasn’t just another cage—prettier maybe, quieter, but still a place to disappear inside.

But belief is hard when you’ve spent your life being wrong about people.

Still, there was something in his voice—unsteady, not used to asking. Like he didn’t do this often. Like offering me a fake marriage was the most vulnerable thing he could come up with.

I looked at him.

Really looked.

There were scars on his knuckles, a fading bruise along his jaw. His shirt clung to him in places still damp from the rain. But it was his eyes that held me still—tired, dark, full of that restless storm I hadn’t yet learned to name.

This man had killed for me.

Sheltered me.

And now he was offering me something that sounded like safety, even if he wrapped it in steel.

I sat down slowly, the blanket still clutched around me like armor. My voice came out quieter than I meant it to.

“So what, I sign papers and I’m yours?”

His eyes flicked to mine, sharp. “No. Not mine. Just… not his. Ever again.”

Something in my chest broke open.

He wasn’t asking for love. He wasn’t even asking for trust.

He was offering protection in the only way he knew how, through control, through power, through something permanent enough to ward off men like Dan and the enemies he didn’t talk about.

But to me… marriage meant surrender. Ownership. A death of self.

I swallowed hard. “And after that? What happens to me when you’re done?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t get done with people I protect.”

“You’ll stop needing me one day.”

“I’ll never stop protecting you.”

That’s when I knew he meant it.

He didn’t say he’d love me. He didn’t promise forever. But there was something steadier than romance in his words. A vow born out of grit and blood and survival.

I reached across the table, fingers trembling, and touched his hand. Just lightly. Like if I touched too much, I’d burn.

“Fine,” I whispered. “But don’t expect me to wear white.”

A flicker of something crossed his face. Relief maybe. Or regret.

He didn’t smile, but his fingers closed over mine like an anchor.

“I’d rather see you in black anyway.”