Page 52 of His Orders

His hips jerk once, then again, each movement deeper than the last, until he buries himself to the hilt and holds there, unmoving, his breath catching as his release pulses hot and thick inside me. He groans my name through clenched teeth,voice ragged with satisfaction and something darker, something claiming, while I clutch at his shoulders, still trembling from the aftershocks of my own orgasm. The movie continues to flicker on in front of us, a forgotten rhythm of light and sound, but all I can hear is the echo of our breaths, the soft stuttering in our chests as we come down together.

I stay in his lap longer, melted against him, my thighs slick and sore, his arms wrapped loosely around my waist. The silence is warm now, easy, and when I finally shift off him, it’s only because the screen fades to black and the end credits begin to roll, casting us in the soft hush of finality. I fix my clothes with trembling hands, still flushed and damp and aching in the best way, and when I glance at him, I find that crooked, satisfied smile already spreading across his face.

It’s smug, unapologetically so. And when I catch my reflection in the glossy black screen ahead, I realize I’m wearing a smile of my own—shy, sweet, and satisfied. This smile stays on all the way back to the rental and well after he kisses me goodbye. Its still there when I step out of the shower, tucked into a cozy towel, and check my phone to see if he made it back home safely and find a text from the ex instead, complete with a photo of me standing outside Ethan’s cabin.

When were you planning on letting me know about the new boyfriend, baby girl?

It creeps in slowly, the full meaning of his message, the way poison might slip beneath the skin without warning, not loud or obvious, but deliberate and suffocating. At first, it feels like nothing more than a chill, a whisper at the back of my mind, something I can blink away if I try hard enough. But then it deepens, takes root, and the weight of his words sinksthrough my chest like a stone dropped into still water, unsettling everything it touches.

He will not let Ethan go.

Not because he wants me. Not because there is some tattered love left to chase or reclaim. But because he knows now—without question—that Ethan means something to me. And for a man like Daniel, that alone is enough. That knowledge becomes a lever, a pressure point, a weapon he can wield with terrifying precision. He doesn’t need to scream to do damage. His silence has always been sharper than a knife, his restraint more cruel than rage.

A sick heaviness coils in my stomach, slow at first, then faster, until the very thought of his getting near Ethan becomes unbearable. I try not to imagine what he could do, what doors he might open with his money, his favors, his reach. But the images come anyway, crawling in around the edges of my mind like smoke, blurring everything else until I can see only the worst. I see Ethan at the hospital, blindsided by whispers and lies. I see a boardroom with closed doors and forced smiles. I see headlines spun out of nothing, courtrooms filled with noise and questions, every inch of his life pulled apart under scrutiny he never asked for.

The nausea rises hard and fast.

I stumble toward the bathroom, heart pounding in my ears, vision swimming, breath caught somewhere high in my throat as if my own ribs are trying to crush it. The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I fall to my knees beside the toilet, retching until there’s nothing left but the hollow burn of fear lodged somewhere between my spine and my sternum. My skin slickswith sweat, and I grip the edge of the sink with trembling fingers just to stay upright.

The mirror does not soften anything. My reflection stares back pale and drawn, mouth tight, eyes wide and glassy with something dangerously close to grief. I don’t know how long I stand there, watching myself fall apart in silence, but eventually, I find the strength to turn away, to splash cold water on my face and press the towel to my cheeks, letting the damp cotton ground me in the reality I’m trying so hard to control.

Back in the bedroom, I reach for my phone with hands that still haven’t stopped shaking. When I open the message thread, I see Ethan’s last text, sent just moments ago, sweet and unguarded, threaded with warmth that lingers like a touch on bare skin.

It is a reminder of everything I wanted to believe might still be possible. His words fill the room like he’s standing right here, barefoot and amused, holding out a mug of coffee I didn’t ask for, offering comfort in the only way he knows how. My eyes blur before I reach the end of it, and I blink hard, but the tears come anyway, thick and silent, because I know what I have to do.

This is the part I never wanted to reach. The part where protecting him means hurting him. I press my thumbs to the screen. The light glares too brightly in the dim room, and for a long moment I just stare at the blinking cursor, trying to find a way to say goodbye without letting him see the bruise forming beneath my ribs. I want to tell him that it isn’t about trust, that he has done nothing wrong. I want to say that his hands are the only place I’ve ever felt steady, that his voice is the one I reach for in my sleep. I want to say that none of this is fair.

But I don’t.

Instead, I type slowly, carefully, as if each word costs something I can’t get back. I read it once, twice, three times before I send it.

We can’t see each other anymore.

Then I drop the phone beside me on the bed and let the silence return.

18

ETHAN

The door clicks shut behind me, but I do not hear it. My mind is still wrapped around the sound of her voice last night, soft and breathless in the dark, her lips parted beneath mine, her fingers digging into my shoulders like she needed me more than air. That memory lives in my skin, anchored deep, and yet the screen in my hand tells a different story altogether.

We can't see each other anymore.

I read the message twice before my body even registers the tension that has seized my chest. It sits heavily, too measured to be panic, too sharp to be anything but deliberate. I stare at the words like they might rewrite themselves if I look hard enough, but they stay fixed, cold and clinical, like she ripped a page out of her own heart and sent it without flinching.

No period. No explanation. Just a sentence designed to create distance.

I press my hand to the kitchen counter to ground myself, breathing through the kind of tightness I have not felt since medschool when patients coded before my eyes and I had to choose between freezing or cutting. I don’t freeze now. I have never been that kind of man.

Instead, I text her back.

No. Try again. Call me.

The message shows delivered, but she does not respond. The screen stays silent.

A minute later, the silence breaks. My phone vibrates again, but it is not Ivy. It’s a new number. No name, just a message.

You should have known better, Cross. She's not yours.

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