My life

You will never touch her again

MICAS POV

By the time I finished dealing with her family and pulling every piece of information I could from them, my hands were shaking with barely contained rage. The things they admitted to some casually, some defensively made something dark coil tight in my chest. I wanted to tear them apart. I wanted to make them feel even a fraction of what they had put her through. 

But mixed with that fury was something else. Relief. 

They were gone. 
They were afraid. 
And they would stay away from her now. 

That mattered more than anything.

I started walking toward the car, my thoughts heavy and chaotic, already planning next steps legal protections, pack enforcement, contingencies when the car door suddenly flew open.

Before I could react, she was there.

Genevieve ran straight into my arms like gravity itself had pulled her toward me. She collided with my chest and wrapped herself around me completely arms locked tight around my neck, legs clinging to my waist like she was afraid the ground might disappear if she let go. 

She was sobbing. Hard. The kind of crying that comes from terror finally having somewhere safe to spill. 

I froze for half a second, stunned not by her weight, not by her closeness, but by the trust it took for her to do that. Then instinct took over. I wrapped my arms around her and held her as tightly as I dared, pressing her into me, anchoring her there. 

"It's okay," I murmured over and over, even though I wasn't sure she could hear me through the sobs. "I've got you. You're safe. I'm right here." 

She refused to let go. Not even when I tried to shift her so we could get into the car. Her grip tightened instead, fingers digging into my shirt, her legs locking around me harder. 

And I understood. 

Letting go right now felt impossible to her. The moment she released me, the world might come crashing back in. I wasn't about to force that. 

What I decided to do next wasn't ideal. It wasn't safe. But neither was leaving her terrified and shaking in the parking lot. Mia didn't drive. And Genevieve wasn't going to release me anytime soon. 

So I adjusted us carefully. I guided her so she was sitting sideways across my lap in the driver's seat, her legs tucked up, her arms still locked around my neck. I managed to pull the seat belt across us both, making sure it was secure. She was trembling violently, her face buried against my chest, breathing uneven and shallow. 

I started the car. 

As I drove, I kept one hand steady on the wheel and the other pressed firmly against her back, feeling every shudder of her breath. I could tell she was watching me studying my face, my reactions, probably looking for any sign that I might disappear or change. 

She wasn't crying anymore, but she was still holding on like I was the only solid thing left in her world. 

I didn't say much. I didn't need to. I let my presence speak for me. Every turn was slow. Every stop careful. I drove like the most precious thing I'd ever known was sitting in my lap—because she was. 

Eventually, her body softened. Her grip loosened just a little. She shifted closer and rested her head against my chest, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claimed her. She fell asleep there, still wrapped around me, trusting me with her unconscious body in a way that nearly broke me. 

We made it home safely. 

I didn't wake her. I carried her inside, every step deliberate, careful not to jostle her. She didn't stir when I laid her down on our bed, didn't even flinch when I pulled the blankets over her. 

Mia and I brought in the shopping bags together. She guarded the Victoria's Secret bag like it was classified information, flat-out refusing to let me see inside. I didn't push. Whatever was in there was for Genevieve and that was enough. 

I thought about putting her new clothes away for her, but something stopped me. She deserved to do that herself. To choose where things went. To claim the space as hers. Instead, I went into my closet and reorganized it, clearing out room so she could have space when she was ready. 

Only then did I retreat to my office. 

I spread out the information her so-called father had given me. Names. Dates. Details. Things she deserved to know but that could also reopen wounds that were barely beginning to close. 

I stared at the papers for a long time, my jaw tight. 

How do you tell someone the truth when that truth might hurt them? 
How do you protect someone from pain without lying to them? 

I didn't have the answer yet. 

But I would. 

Because whatever came next, I would face it with her not for her, not instead of her, but beside her.