Page 132 of Carrick
He shifted us gently, pulling the blankets up over my back, settling me fully into his lap as he leaned against the headboard, cradling me like I was precious. I felt small in his arms. Fragile. But not breakable.
He reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, opened it, and brought it to my lips. “Drink,” he said softly. “Just a few sips.” I obeyed.
He wiped my mouth with a towel before setting the bottle down. Then he kissed my forehead—slow and reverent, like the scene hadn’t just shattered me from the inside out.
And maybe that’s why it meant more. Because he knew exactly how deep he’d gone. And he was still here.
“Come down slowly,” he whispered. “There’s no rush.”
I breathed him in, skin warm, heart steady. I’d never felt so raw. So stripped. And yet—held. In every sense of the word.
My voice was a rasp when I asked, “How do you know how to do this?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then—quietly: “Because I needed it once. And no one knew how.”
I turned my face up toward his, and there was something in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. Something that looked a lot like the beginning of grief. Or maybe understanding.
“I’m glad it was you,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled slowly, and pulled me tighter. “You’re safe,” he said. “I promise.”
And I believed him. Not because the world outside had changed. But because he’d stepped into the storm with me, and made it something I could survive. I’d fallen apart in his hands—and he’d held every piece like it mattered.
25
Carrick
She was gone.Not gone-gone—I would’ve felt that kind of loss like a blade to the chest. This was something else.
No panic. No cold sweat. Just that subtle, aching absence, the shift in the air when someone leaves without closing the door behind them. The kind of silence that doesn’t scream, but lingers. I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I felt it in my bones.
She’d slipped from the sheets without waking me, moved with the same careful grace she used when handling something fragile. Not because she didn’t want to be here, but because she didn’t know what it meant that she was.
The blankets were still warm, tangled around my legs like a snare. Her pillow held the shape of her head, soft and dented with the echo of reverence. The scent of her clung to the cotton; salted skin, lingering heat, that smoky rosemary trace of her shampoo. Like she’d been kissed by fire and walked away smiling. It was fucking intoxicating. And it was still here. But she wasn’t.
Every muscle in my body ached in ways that had nothing to do with what we’d done the night before. It sat in my shoulders. My jaw. The tightness in my chest that hadn’t eased since the second I realized she was no longer beside me. I opened myeyes and stared at the ceiling, still and silent, trying not to think. Trying—and failing—not to feel the hollow she left behind like a bruise under the skin.
But I wasn’t wired for waiting. I’d been trained to read the room before I stepped into it. Assess. Adapt. Break chaos into pieces until it could be handled. Controlled. Erased. I wasn’t supposed to be the one unraveling.
And yet here I was, lying in the wreckage she left behind.
And she was the detonator.
She’d come apart in my arms last night—given herself to me without walls, without pretense. No games. No distance. Just raw, trembling surrender. The kind that leaves fingerprints on your soul. It hadn’t just been sex. It hadn’t been that for a long time, and we both knew it. This wasn’t just a scene, or a power exchange, or a container for pain. It was her. All of her. And I’d taken it, held it, fed it back to her like oxygen.
Now she was gone.
Not far. I could hear voices drifting up from the kitchen; Maddy’s laughter, the scrape of chairs, the familiar thud of Sully’s boots. Bellamy was probably down there too, coffee in hand, spine straight, eyes sharp. Already pretending last night hadn’t shifted something tectonic between us. But I couldn’t. Because it had. Because I missed her. Not just the press of her body or the taste of her sweat, but the quiet presence of her beside me. The warmth. The weight. The rhythm of her breath slowing against my chest like she’d finally stopped fighting the war she carried inside her.
And that realization, that her absence made the air thinner? That was the part that scared me. I wasn’t supposed to need anyone. Especially not her.
I sat up slowly, dragging a hand down my face to clear the static. My skin still buzzed from her touch. I could feel the echo of her body like a second heartbeat, the shape of her pressedinto me, the way she trembled before she let go. She’d given me everything. And I hadn’t hesitated. Because she needed someone to take it.
But now she was gone. And it wasn’t just the bed she’d left. It was a retreat—quiet, practiced—the way she always pulled back when the air got too heavy with things she didn’t know how to feel. And the worst part was, I was letting her, not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know how to ask her to stay without making her run.
The woman I held in my arms last night, the one who broke open for me, who wept without sound and let me gather every fractured piece, had let me see her. Really see her. And now she was probably downstairs, acting like it hadn’t meant anything. Like it hadn’t rewired something in both of us. And I’d have to pretend too, because I didn’t know what the fuck else to do.
I hadn’t wanted this. Hadn’t planned for it. Feelings were complications. Attachment was a liability. And falling for the woman I was supposed to protect—not just physically, but psychologically—was a goddamn disaster. But still, here I was. Caught in it. Helpless against it. Wanting it.
