Page 116 of Broken Trails
Imogen flashes a smile before she climbs in. “And, Zoe? You’re not alone, alright?” The door slams. The engine fades. And then it’s just us. I didn’t want this. But the silence they leave behind isn’t empty, it’s loud. Loud with Liam’s words, still echoing, still cutting. I hate how they cling. How they sneak in and unravel me, even when he’s long gone.
My eyes blur. Damn it.
“You should’ve gone with them,” I murmur, forcing my voice to remain steady. “It’s late.”
Michael steps closer. “Don’t close off on me again, Freckles.” Low and composed, his words don’t shake. “Not after this. I’m not going anywhere.”
I throw my hands in the air, heart cracking open all over again. “What are you still doing here? What do you want from me?” I gesture behind me, to where Liam stood like a shadow come to life. “You heard him.”
Michael’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. Loud and fucking clear. Every word of it. All lies.”
“Then why does it feel like the truth?” I yell.
He steps closer, fire in his eyes. “Because he got in your head. That’s what abusers do. They make you question yourself. Make you believe you’re unworthy so you won’t leave. But you did. And you’re so fucking brave for it.”
I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “But why do you care?”
His chest rises and falls. His voice drops. “Because I do.”
“But why?” My voice cracks on the last word. “I’m noth—”
Michael surges forward, cradling my face in both hands. His thumbs wipe the tears before they can fall. “Stop. Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence.”
His forehead presses against mine, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re everything, Zoe. Do you hear me? You’re strength. You’re fire. You’re softness, even when you try to hide it. You’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever fucking seen, and you don’t even know it.”
My breath hitches. His words melt into me, slipping beneath skin, seeping into places no one’s ever reached. My tears fall freely now, but not because of Liam.
Because of this man standing in front of me. Raw and open. No games. No shame. Just truth.
And God, I want to believe it.
His hands slip lower, down my back until they cup my ass with a firm, possessive grip that sends heat pulsing straight to my core. “You’re fucking beautiful, Zoe,” he growls. “You’re nothing like what he said. Nothing. And this is the last time we discuss that fucker. Do you understand?”
His eyes are locked on mine with a kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe. I hesitate.
Because no, I don’t. Not fully. Not yet. Not when the words Liam hurled are still tangled around my ribs like a vice. Not when my heart is still trying to decide whether it’s safe to beat freely again. Yet, I find myself nodding. It’s not trust. Not yet. But it’s something. A first step. A trembling attempt at believing.
“Good girl.” The praise rumbles through him, and my stomach flutters in response. His lips brush my forehead before he tips my chin up. “Now, we’re going to head inside.” My knees go weak. His eyes burn into mine. “And I’m gonna fuck you—”
A full-body shudder rips through me.
“—and show you exactly how a real man worships his woman.” I can’t speak. Can’t breathe.
His mouth crashes down on mine.
There’s nothing soft about it. No tentative brush or gentle coaxing. Just hunger—hot and all-consuming. His tongue sweeps into me—with that familiar flick of his barbell piercing—swirling against mine, and dragging a low, involuntary sound from my throat.
God, I’m starting to love how that feels.
His hands slide to my hips and then, without warning, I’m airborne. A startled gasp leaves me as my legs wrap around his waist, instinct overriding doubt—but still, a sliver of panic slips in.
“Michael—”
“I’ve got you, baby.” His voice is rough against my lips. “You’re not heavy, Zoe. Don’t even start.”
I swallow hard, breath catching in my throat. He carries me to the door with effortless strength, one hand gripping the underside of my thigh, the other fisting in the hem of my jumper, tugging it up. We fumble, and I manage to twist the keys just as Sprinkles appears from the shadows with a high-pitched meow. Michael doesn’t stop.
“Not now, Sprinkles,” he mutters, kicking the door closed behind us. “Your mama needs”—his teeth skim my jaw—“to be shown what it’s like to be truly fucked. Thoroughly.”
