Page 187 of Piece Us Together

Dr. Singh leads me to a room off the main hall of the house, set up as a bedroom with no decorations or personality, likely for guests. He pokes around for a few tentative moments until I figure out what he’s trying to know and tell him that I’m aware of Maison’s tendencies to not care for himself and hurt himself. He looks relieved, admitting he had been torn between telling me that or not, even though Maison had said it was okay. After that, he goes into Maison’s most common self-harm behaviors and how accountability, structure, and check-ins are the keys to helping him. We go over a few options.

Then he says, “Hunter?”

It’s the tone, more than anything. It has me going still. “Yes?”

“I’ll be honest, I was hoping he’d put quitting as a goal. I think it’s tied to forgiveness, at least, so it may still be coming. We’re going to talk about it a lot in the coming weeks.” His eyebrows pull in. “I can’t stress this enough, though—I don’t believe it’s safe for him to go on another operation right now. I’m confident he’s not going to go out of his way to end his life, but I’m not atall confident that he wouldn’t sacrifice himself the second he got the chance.”

“You can’t stop him? Declare him medically unable or something?”

“Not anymore. He’s not working for our previous boss. Neither of us is. The missions he accepts now are up to him to take. There’s no one he needs to clear his health—mental or otherwise—with. No oversight.”

“Keats?”

Something shifts in Dr. Singh’s expression, almost like he’s become guarded. His voice is colder when he asks, “What do you know about Keats?”

“Only what Maison has told me. He’s an ex-operative.” I hesitate, though, because that’s not exactly true. He can tell. He’s waiting for more, one eyebrow raised, his eyes narrowed. “I know what assumptions I’ve made, based on observations. I have no idea how accurate they may be.”

“Like?”

“Well, heactslike he’s in charge. More than Maison, who was the leader of this team for a decade. More than Travis, who sees the lives of all of the survivors as his to protect. His biggest competition is probably Bryce, but Bryce makes sense, he’s spent so much time with this group. He feels a sense of kinship with the survivors. I have no doubt he’d fight for any of them if it came down to it, even against the operatives. Maybe especially against them.” I eye him, then decide to go for it. “It’s also strange, that he’s obsessed with Bryce. How, right? Nolan said he only met Keats a little while ago, when he came by after one of his first ops with the others. Not to mention the way he watches everything and everyone. He acts like they’re all his responsibility.”

“What are you saying?” he asks.

I shrug, still not entirely sure. It’s just something in my gut. Something I’m missing. What, exactly, I have no fucking idea. “I just think he has a lot of weight on his shoulders, like Maison. Misplaced weight, possibly. I also think he’d cut Maison off if we told him about things, but I know Maison wouldn’t appreciate that. Maybe next time I see him I’ll hint that Maison is struggling?”

He seems to soften. “Do you think Maison wouldn’t listen if you asked him to stay?”

“I know he would.” I wince. “He begged me not to ask.”

“That’s really hard. I want to ask you how you feel about that, very, very badly.” He chuckles and I join him with a soft laugh of my own. “You know, I’m always here, if you need to talk. No fee. If you’re comfortable enough mentally though, I think Maison needs you right now.”

I try not to look too relieved. I consider myself a very well-adjusted, mentally healthy person. I’d hate to have that whole view shattered and Dr. Singh seems like the kind of therapist who would see things even I’ve never seen. No thank you. Not today, Singh.

We shake hands and he gives me his number, then sends me on my way to go find my boys.

They’re in the kitchen where I left them, both resting their heads on the counter of the breakfast bar, sitting so close their noses are touching. Maison has his eyes closed. Nolan is just watching him breathe.

I soak the sight of them in.

Then I go to them, a hand on each of their backs, and say, “Time to bring you boys home.”

We’re just finishing dinner, an easy meal Nolan tossed together when we first got home. Nolan is on his knees with his head resting against my thigh and my soft cock in his mouth. His hands have been pulsing where he holds each of my ankles, like he’s checking I’m still here. I keep stroking his hair, liking the way it makes him melt and hum.

Maison has been quiet, complimenting the food and thanking me for driving him to the house, but otherwise keeping his head down and his mouth chewing. I’ve allowed it since I’ve needed to think anyway. But now the food is gone and I’ve come to a few tentative decisions.

“What color would you be if I told you I want to give you a few rules?” I ask him.

His grip tightens on the fork that’s completely unnecessary now that his plate is empty. “Green, probably. Depending on the rules…”

“Okay. Can we talk about them now, or do you need some time?”

“Can we, uh—not do it here?”

“Would you like to move to the couch? Or the bed?”

His cheeks flush. “Actually, I’ve been wondering—you think that bath of yours would fit the three of us?”

“I bet we could manage,” I say, as if I haven’t thought the logistics out myself. It’s a big fucking bath. The kind with a nearly neck-deep basin and a little ledge to sit on and jets around it. There are even two faucets, one on each end.

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