Page 88 of Carrick
I pushed my plate aside and stood, the hem of his hoodie brushing my thighs as I moved. Carrick followed, steppingaround the island to meet me. His hand slid around my waist, gentle as it tugged me in.
“No falling in love,” I warned.
“No promises,” he murmured.
He kissed me slowly, like I was something sacred, like he was discovering the taste of a promise he hadn’t realized he’d made. It was gentle, almost reverent, his mouth coaxing rather than taking, and I let him. Because the rules had already cracked. Because the danger was no longer something coming—it was here, wrapped in the way his lips moved against mine, in the way his hand anchored me softly at the waist. His kiss slipped past the careful walls I’d built, curling into the quiet, hidden parts of me like ivy threading through old stone. I should’ve stopped him. I didn’t want to.
When he finally eased back and rested his forehead against mine, I stepped away—not out of fear, but because I needed the illusion of space. A breath of distance. Some thread of control to hold on to, even if it was fraying fast.
“I’m going to read,” I murmured, my voice still husky from the weight of him.
Carrick didn’t question the lie. He only nodded, brushing his thumb once over the curve of my hip before turning away.
“Call if you need me.”
I wouldn’t. Not tonight. Not yet. Barefoot, I moved down the hall and slipped into the small guest room where someone, probably Deacon, had left a worn stack of books and a spare journal with a pen tucked neatly inside.
I curled into the chair by the window, wrapping myself in a throw blanket that smelled faintly of cedar and comfort, of safety I hadn’t known I craved. Morning light filtered through the trees beyond the glass, casting long threads of gold across the lawn, quiet and still like the earth itself was holding its breath. Maybe I was too.
I opened the journal. The pages stared back at me, blank and untouched, and something about their emptiness made my chest tighten. I rarely wrote. Words made things real, made them harder to deny. But something about last night, about him, was pressing beneath my skin, too heavy to ignore. So I let the pen find the truth.
He didn’t flinch when I broke. Didn’t run when I bled all over the silence. He just stayed. Held me like the wreckage wasn’t too much. Like I wasn’t too much. And I don’t know what to do with that kind of gentleness. I don’t know how to hold it without crushing it. But I want to try. I want to believe that soft doesn’t mean weak, and wanting doesn’t make me foolish. I want to stay. Just for a little while.
I didn’t want to believe him. But I did. The truth lodged itself in my chest, quiet and insistent. That’s when it started—the shift. Not with a grand gesture or some dramatic spark, but with his steady presence and the way he looked at me without trying to fix what was broken.
Carrick didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He simply stayed. And somehow, that was worse. Because when a man like that sees all the wreckage and still holds you close, still whispers that you’re his even when you’re unraveling, you start to want things you swore you’d never reach for again. You start to crave softness. To hunger for trust. To ache for the right to stay.
18
Bellamy
I didn’t sleep.Not really.
I just lay there with my eyes closed, trying to pretend the stillness was rest instead of collapse. The journal sat closed on the chair beside me, but I could still feel the weight of it—every word I’d written pressing down like confession. Like surrender.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because for a moment—just one—I’d let myself feel safe. Let Carrick hold me. Let the ache turn into something that wasn’t sharp and screaming. For a moment, I let myself want things. Hope for things.
But the moment passed.
And reality slammed back in.
Rayden was still out there. Still a target. Still a time bomb with my blood in his veins. And everyone around me had gone quiet. Like we were in some kind of holding pattern. Like the world had stopped spinning just because we were tucked away behind thick walls and heavy doors.
But I knew better. The world didn’t stop. It closed in. And if they weren’t going to do something, I would. Even if it meant ripping the silence wide open.
I stood.
I didn’t brush my hair or change my clothes or try to look composed. I didn’t need polish. I needed fire. I needed answers. I needed to make damn sure they remembered why I was here. Why I mattered. Why waiting had never been part of the plan.
I stormed downstairs without preamble. Without hesitation. And I didn’t stop until the words were out of my mouth.
“I’m done waiting.”
I said it before I’d even crossed the threshold into the room. Said it loud. Said it on purpose.
Jax looked up from the couch, startled mid-sip of his coffee. Niko didn’t even flinch—just lifted one dark brow and went back to whatever tactical nonsense was glowing on his laptop screen. Sully sighed and lowered the book in his lap. Deacon leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes steady.
