Page 91 of Fractured Loyalties
“Tell me what’s in your head,” I say.
He crosses the room and kneels in front of me, hands braced on either side of my knees. His voice is gravel when it finally comes.
“You. Alone in that office. That note. Caleb’s reach.” His jaw clenches. “How easy it would be to lose the thread of you.”
“You haven’t,” I say.
“But I could.”
I reach for him.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate.
I pull him up to me. Not fast. Just close. And when our mouths meet, it’s quieter than before. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just deep. Like maybe we finally understand what it means to hold without hurting.
His hand slides under the hoodie I haven’t taken off, past the soft cotton of the shirt beneath it. Finds bare skin and the thump of my ribs.
“You always run cold,” he murmurs.
“Always.”
“I’ll fix that.”
He lifts the hoodie slowly, watching my face. Giving me every second to stop him.
I don’t.
The fabric brushes over my arms, my shoulders. He drops it to the floor. His fingers find the hem of my shirt next.
“Okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod.
It’s not rushed. It’s not perfect. But it’s careful. He moves like someone who’s learning a language through skin. I don’t tell him where I hurt. I don’t have to. He finds it anyway. And when his mouth touches that old scar at my side, I flinch. But not from pain.
He pulls back. Looks at me.
“I want you,” he says. “But I need you to feel safe more than I need anything else.”
“I feel it,” I whisper.
“You sure?”
I nod again.
And when he lowers me to the bed, it isn’t about forgetting.
It’s about finally remembering what it means to be wanted and not used.
To be seen and not handled.
His hands slide around my waist, his mouth finds mine again, and this time I don’t pause.
I don’t pull away.
His kiss is a fucking paradox—gentle, like I’m spun glass, but laced with a hunger that could burn me to ash. It’s as if he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he grips too tight, yet terrified I’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. His weight hovers over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other digging into my hip, anchoring me on the bed. He’s still holding back, leaving me a sliver of space to escape this inferno. I don’t take it.
My fingers find his ribs, tracing the sharp lines of ink carved over bone, a map of his secrets etched in black. He doesn’t flinch, but his breath catches, a shallow, jagged hitch that betrays the crack in his armor. I drag my nails along the ridge, slow and deliberate, watching his control flicker like a dying flame.
