Page 151 of Carrick
And me? I waited. Puttered around the shop, tools idle in my hands. Picked at a custom job we’d promised weeks ago but never found the time—or the focus—to finish. I let the quiet stretch deep into the marrow of the day. Bellamy joined me for a while, her hands still, presence steady. She didn’t come to help—only to be close—and I didn’t ask for anything more. I needed the nearness, too. Needed the outline of her beside me, thegrounding comfort of shared silence, the unspoken truth that we were both holding our breath for the same thing.
Later that evening, after the house had settled into the hush of night, she stepped into my room barefoot. Her hair was damp, skin freshly washed, and she wore one of my t-shirts, and nothing else. It hit her at mid-thigh, soft and worn, clinging in places that made her look like a benediction wrapped in sin. She stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, chewing the inside of her cheek like the act alone might keep her upright. I sat on the edge of the bed, head tilted, eyes trained on her like the lit fuse she was.
“What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just moved, small steps back and forth, like she could pace the feeling out of her body. Like the answer was lodged somewhere deep and had to be shaken loose. Then she stilled, one hand gripping the edge of the dresser, fingers white-knuckled against the wood.
“I can’t stop thinking about him.”
I didn’t ask who.
“I close my eyes and I see him,” she said, voice thin and tremulous. “Getting into that SUV. Talking to that Oleg guy like they’ve done it before. Like it’s normal.” She shook her head hard, as if the memory could be physically dislodged. “I know we’re doing everything we can. I know the phone’s being monitored and the team’s on alert and the plan is set. But Carrick, it’s in me. The worry. The guilt. The noise. I can’t shut it off.”
She didn’t cry, but the pain vibrated off her in quiet waves, raw and real, written in her posture, the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she held herself like one bad memory might splinter her apart. I rose and crossed the room slowly, deliberately. Her eyes met mine. I reached out and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture soft, anchoring.
“I can’t change what we saw,” I said, my voice steady. “Can’t promise what’s coming.”
“I know.”
“But I can give you something else to focus on.”
Her breath caught. Just slightly—but enough. I leaned in, lowering my voice until it curled against the shell of her ear.
“Let me take you under again. Let me own you for a little while. Let someone else hold the weight.”
I saw it in her—the moment she debated. The moment she broke. The need was already there. All she had to do was reach for it. And when she did, her nod was small but certain.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
I cupped her jaw and kissed her once, slow and sure, a claim and a comfort, a promise given between lips. Then I drew back just enough to speak the words I already knew would be true.
“Come with me. I already have things prepared.”
Jax’s room wasn’t like the rest of the house.
Where the main structure bore the charm of age—hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, scars from half-finished renovations—this annex was surgical. Clean lines. Reinforced beams. Purpose-built with precision.
It was quiet when we stepped in. Still.
Bellamy paused just inside, her bare feet brushing the softly padded tatami mat. Her breath hitched—subtle but sharp—and I felt her pulse shift. Nerves giving way to need.
To our left, Jax adjusted the suspension frame.
Polished black steel. Freestanding. Custom-welded with integrated hard points, every bolt secured into crossbeams rated for more than twice a person’s weight. The center beam was padded for lateral support, tension marks chalked on the floor like a ritual already underway.
Hanging from the main uplink, a single metal ring swayed gently, clipped, gleaming, and waiting.
“I pre-rigged a triple-point suspension,” Jax said without looking up. “Low partial first. I want to test her stability before we lift both legs.”
Bellamy’s eyes flicked to mine—uncertain, but hungry. I brushed my thumb across her cheek.
“She wants this,” I said.
“She needs to want it safely,” Jax replied, tone calm but firm. And that was the moment.
I stepped forward, just enough to meet Jax’s gaze. “I want your help,” I said. “With my girl.”
There was a beat.
