Page 83 of Carrick
I dropped the wand, the clink of it barely audible over her broken sobs. They came like a storm—harsh, open, unrelenting. And not from anything I’d done. From everything she hadn’t let herself feel until now.
I moved fast, unfastening the cuffs with practiced ease, catching her before gravity could.
She didn’t resist. Didn’t tense. She just fell into me like she’d been waiting for permission to do it.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, wrapping her tight against my chest, my lips in her hair, my arms around everything she no longer had to carry alone. “I’ve got you.”
And this time, she didn’t speak. She just let go—and I held her through it, whispering quiet praise as she sagged into my arms, trembling and whole.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
Her fingers clawed at my shirt, clinging like she was drowning.
And in a way—she was.
“I miss him,” she sobbed.
“I know, baby. I know.”
She trembled in my arms, face pressed to my neck, tears soaking through my collar as grief tore through her in waves she’d held back for too long.
I didn’t hold her as her Dom or her protector. I held her as the man who had promised,You won’t come back to yourself alone.And I wouldn’t let her.
She gave in like something collapsing under its own weight, sagging heavy in my arms, breath broken, face wet. And fuck, she was exquisite like this. Not posed or performing. Just raw. Honest. The kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be seen but demanded to be felt.
She’d taken the sting of the wand with fire in her blood, met my gaze with tears in her eyes—but this? This was different. This was the truth of her. Bellamy, stripped down past control, past pride, past everything she used to hold herself upright. Nothing left but the woman who trusted me to catch her when she let it all go.
I eased back onto the couch, letting her curl into my lap like she belonged there. Her knees tucked against her chest, cheek resting over my heart, hands still fisted in my shirt like she was anchoring herself to me.
She was quieter now, but not done—not yet. Her body still trembled, not from pain, but from release. I didn’t speak. Didn’t offer easy reassurances we both knew might be lies. I just held her. One hand stroking the curve of her spine in slow, steady circles, the other wrapped around the back of her neck, grounding her with skin-to-skin warmth.
Her tears bled through cotton and into me, and still, she clung. And I let her. Because I knew exactly what it meant to fall apart in someone’s hands—and how sacred it was when they didn’t ask you to stop.
“You did so fucking good,” I murmured eventually, when the silence stretched too long.
She didn’t respond. Just let out a soft sound—half sob, half breath—and shifted closer. I felt her exhale all the way down to my bones. It was a release. A letting go. Like her body finally believed she was allowed to stop fighting.
I stayed there with her, heart pounding against her cheek, skin still buzzing from the charge of the scene, the echoes of her voice ringing in my head.
Please. I can’t. Rayden. Fuck.
I tightened my grip just slightly, grounding her back to me, and leaned my chin into her damp curls. “You’re not broken,” I whispered. “You’re just full.”
Her fingers twitched against me.
“And I’ll hold it,” I said. “However long you need. However heavy it gets.”
Still no words. But I didn’t need them. This wasn’t the part where she had to speak. This was the part where she could be silent. Messy. Soft. And know—without question—that I wouldn’t go anywhere.
She finally stirred again, blinking slow and hazy up at me, her lashes stuck together and her cheeks blotched from crying. I kissed her forehead.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said.
She didn’t argue or pretend she was fine—just gave a small, silent nod as I gathered her into my arms and carried her to my bed.
17
Bellamy
