Benji didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

Because fuck—she just said home.

And she meant him.

Not a place. Not a house with windows and doors and a kitchen they’d never cook in. Him. The boy with the dagger under his ribs and her name etched into every reckless choice he’d ever made.

Heather Goodwin, in all her blood-and-thorns glory, had just claimed him in a dark alley beside a rusting truck like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she knew she could end him—and kissed him anyway.

His hand flew to her waist without thinking, fingers curling tight like he was anchoring himself to the only thing that still made sense. The kiss was molten, slow and sure and fatal in the way it sank into his bones and rewrote the definition of devotion.

He kissed her back like a promise. Like he’d never kiss anyone else again. Like maybe if he pressed hard enough, long enough, she’d feel the fire she lit in him and never stop feeding it.

When she finally pulled back—lips redder, breath tangled, eyes full of something holy and hers—Benji just stared.

Wrecked. Lit up. Hers.

Then he exhaled a laugh, rough and stunned, forehead pressing to hers like he was trying to memorize the shape of this moment.

“Goddamn, Goode,” he breathed. “I didn’t think I could fall harder.”

He tilted his head, brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, softer this time.

“I was wrong.”

His hand found hers again, threaded their fingers like they were made to do it. Like the space between them had always been waiting for this lock, this fit, this fuck-you-to-the-universe kind of love.

Then he opened the truck door and jerked his head toward it with a grin that didn’t even try to hide how far gone he was.

“Get in, storm girl. I’m taking you home.”

A beat.

“To our home.”

And whether that was his bed, or her shadowed past, or some future neither of them had the guts to name yet—

They were already in it.

Together.

Marked. Bound. Unbreakable.

She was buzzing.

Still tasting him on her mouth. Still feeling the way his hand had gripped her waist like she was oxygen and he’d forgotten how to breathe. Still replaying the way our home left his lips like a confession. Like he meant it with everything in him. And God—he did.

The tattoo still stung beneath her ribs, but it was a good sting. A claimed kind of burn. And when he looked at her like that—like he was already halfway worshipping her even as he grinned and opened the truck door—Heather swore something unholy bloomed in her chest.

She climbed in with a smirk, boots thunking against the step, her hand still in his like she had zero intention of letting go anytime soon.

She was warm. Floating. Whole.

But then—
His phone rang.

And everything inside her stilled.

Benji glanced at the screen. Didn’t say a word. Just answered.

And at first, she didn’t think much of it. His voice was low, nonchalant, casual in that way he got when he was trying to act like something wasn’t a big deal. Probably Max. Probably some smart-ass theory about cursed soil or graveyard symbols or whatever she'd unearthed next.

Heather leaned back in the seat, letting her head hit the cushion, a little dazed still, a little high on ink and adrenaline and him. She watched the lights blur through the windshield, the alley still humming with leftover energy. Her fingers grazed her ribs, right over the tattoo, lips tugging upward.

But then—

He went quiet.

Just for a moment.

And that was when she knew.

Benji Burroughs didn’t do quiet unless something had shifted. Unless something had gotten in.

Her eyes snapped to him.
The way his jaw tensed.
The way his fingers twitched slightly on the wheel.
The way he said nothing when the call ended—just dropped the phone into the cupholder like it weighed a thousand pounds.

The buzz in her veins chilled.

She didn’t ask right away. Didn’t need to.

Whatever it was—it had found them again.

The curse. The bloodline. The fucking rot that never stayed buried long enough to let anyone breathe.

Her hand reached across the cab, slow but sure, and curled over his forearm.

Not fragile. Not scared.

Just there.

Because whatever it was—whoever was in danger, whatever truth was clawing its way back to the surface—they’d face it like they did everything else:

Together.

Still fierce. Still sharp. Still marked by each other in ways ink could only begin to show.

But she’d be damned—literally—if she let it take him from her.

Not now. Not ever.

She swallowed hard, and her fingers tightened just enough to say what her mouth didn’t.

You’re not alone.
I’ve got you.
And if something’s coming for you—I’ll burn it down first.

She glanced over at him, voice low and steady.

“Detour?”

He nodded once.

And just like that, the warmth in her chest sharpened into something electric.

They were ready.
Whatever it was—whatever waited for them down that road—they were going straight into the dark.

Together.