Page 120 of Piece Us Together

Something hot is on my face. I realize that it’s tears. Many of them.When did I start crying?

He’s shaking again, but it’s not because I’m trying to shake him. It’s because of how hard I’m trembling as I hold onto him for dear fucking life. It’s rolling through him.

“What the fuck is going on here?” a new man barks as he comes flying down the stairs.

Was he in Hunter’s room? Do the three of them do the same thing he does with us? Why do they get to go in his room when we get the guest one?

“I’m going to assume you’re Maison and I’m going to ask you to get your motherfucking hands off of him before I call the police,” the new man says in a cold, no-nonsense voice.

I could kill him seven different ways right now—four of which could be done without me having to fully let go of Hunter’s sweatshirt, two of which I could do without taking a single step, one of which I could do in a way that takes out the little shit now hiding behind him, a two-for-one deal.

The man takes a step forward, reaching into his pocket for what I assume will be his phone. I laugh, low, dark.

“Stop—don’t, just stop!” Hunter says, but it’s not to me, it’s to the man who stumbles to a stop just a few feet from us. The man that was kneeling peers over his shoulder at us. They’re looking at me like Hunter is theirs and they’ll do anything to protect him. I understand that feeling.

It hurts how much I understand that feeling.

“Does he say he loves you guys too?” I ask. I pretend I’m not crying. I pretend I’m not afraid. I pretend I’m not breaking again, my final pieces crumbling into a dust so fine no gold could piece them back together. “Does he say he’ll take care of you? D-does he—does he fucking ask you to trust him?”

Hunter moves the hand that was on my cheek to the back of my neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Maison—Maison, hey, look at me. Me, Maison. Look atme.”

I tear my gaze away from them. There’s blood on the sweatshirt. My knuckles have split back open from how hard I’m clinging to it.

There’s this noise. It’s pained. Like a wild animal that’s trapped and afraid and bleeding out.

I think it’s coming from me.

“Hey. Shh. You’re okay, Maison. I’m right here,” he murmurs, stepping closer until my hands are pressed between his chest and mine. “They’re going to leave, okay? Wells, get out.”

“I’m not going anywhere with him manhandling you like that.”

“Wells,” Hunter says calmly, and I realize the name is familiar. This is Hunter’s best friend. Which makes the man behind him his pet. The one that can cook. Jaxon, I think Hunter said his name was.

“Did you play with them?” I whisper. I have to know. I have to know if he’s been sharing himself. “Are they—did you—”

“No,” Hunter says without a single moment of hesitation. “They are my friends. Nothing more.”

“He was kneeling.” I squeeze my eyes shut, hating that I can’t get the image of him on that cushion out of my mind. “He—he was using Nolan’s cushion.”

“No, Maison. He wasn’t.” I open my eyes, ready to argue. He turns us so we’re looking toward the couch. His hand on the back of my neck tightens. “See? That one is gray. Nolan’s is blue.”

Oh.

“But why was he kneeling for you?”

“He was kneeling forWells. He was—well, it’s not my business to explain.”

“I was sarcastic,” the man says quickly. “I—I’m having a hard time and I acted out. Master—”

“You don’t have to tell him a fucking thing, pet,” Wells says as he glares at me. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

The words feel like weapons. Not because I care about deserving Jaxon’s explanation, but because I know Wells is saying something else with them. He doesn’t think I deserve Hunter. He probably already thought that before this outburst, and now I’ve made it so much worse.

I can’t even blame him.

Idon’tdeserve Hunter.

I don’t deserveanything.

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