Page 190 of Carrick
“She hasn’t eaten,” Sully muttered. “Barely even water. This isn’t mourning anymore. This is—this is giving up.”
He pushed back from the table so hard his chair screeched. “I’m not doing this. I’m not sitting here watching her disappear.” He moved toward the hallway, boots hitting hardwood like war drums.
But Maddy beat him to it. She stepped into the doorway, blocking the path. “She’s not ready.”
Sully stopped, staring her down. “She hasn’t moved.”
“She will,” Maddy said, voice quiet but firm. “When she’s ready.”
“And if she never is?”
“She will,” Maddy repeated, this time like a promise. “But when she comes out… it won’t be for food. It’ll be for Carrick.”
Every eye turned to me. I didn’t flinch. Because I already knew.
“When she does,” Maddy said gently, “don’t make her ask twice.”
“I won’t,” I said.
Jax’s voice broke the silence, quiet but clear. “Statistically, grief substitution through sensation—particularly high-intensity tactile stimuli—can temporarily reroute trauma processing in the limbic system.”
The words dropped into the center of the room like a stone in water.
Niko exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, Jax.”
“What?” Jax blinked, brow furrowed. “It’s relevant.”
“It’sinsensitive,” Niko snapped, his voice tight. “She’s grieving, not volunteering for a clinical trial.”
“She’s also a grown woman who knows her own mind,” I cut in, my voice steady, but low. “And he’s not wrong.”
I pushed off the counter and stepped forward, my boots scuffing against the wood floor, anchoring me in the middle of the tension. “She won’t want comfort. She’ll want control. Pain she canchooseover pain she can’t.” My eyes swept across the table. “If she comes to me, if she asks for it—I’ll give her exactly what she needs.”
Niko’s jaw clenched. “And what if what she needs destroys her? You think she’s in her right mind right now? You think this is clarity?”
“No,” I said. “I think this is survival.”
He started to argue, but I didn’t give him the chance.
“I’m not her shrink. I’m not her fucking priest. I’m the man who promised her I’d be what she needed—whateverthat meant. Even if it’s brutal. Even if it’s messy. Even if I walk away hating myself for what she asks me to do.”
Silence wrapped around the table like smoke.
Sully shifted, slow and quiet, his expression carved with concern. “And if she regrets it tomorrow?”
“Then I’ll carry that,” I said. “So she doesn’t have to.”
None of them spoke after that. Because they knew. They knew what it meant when I said I’d carry it. They knew I would. The house held its breath around us.
And then—footsteps. Deliberate. Measured. Each one like a countdown. We all turned.
Bellamy stepped into the kitchen like a storm wrapped in skin. Her hoodie hung loose around her frame, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Her bare feet moved soundlessly across the tile, but everything else about her was thunder. She looked like hell. There was no trace of tears on her face now, no trembling in her limbs. She was stone. Fire beneath the surface.
And her eyes—God, her eyes—were fierce.
Not wild, not frantic. Just focused. Alive with something searing and raw, like every emotion she’d swallowed had crystallized behind them. They locked on me. Only me.
She didn’t glance at the others. Didn’t hesitate. She marched straight to the table and planted her palms against the wood with a force that wasn’t loud, but landed like a strike.
