Page 31 of Broken By Silence
Her fingers tug at my shirt. My hands trace her curves, careful, asking permission even when she doesn’t say the words. She gives it anyway, pressing closer, guiding me.
We move slowly. Tender, intimate. Not about lust, not tonight. About safety. About her letting me touch the places she once hid. About me proving I can hold her without breaking her.
Every sound she makes is a gift. Every brush of her lips against mine is a promise.
And when it’s over, when she’s tucked against me, sweaty and trembling but smiling, I know.
Claire was right.
Lottie loves me.
And I’d burn the world to deserve it.
Later, when her breathing evens out and her hand stays tangled with mine, I stare at the ceiling. My mind should be racing, but it isn’t. For the first time in years, it’s quiet.
I think about college. About lectures and papers. About sitting in a classroom with my phone buzzing in my pocket because Lottie needs me to walk her into the club that night. About splitting myself in two — student by day, her shadow by night.
It sounds impossible.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe it’s Lottie, always Lottie, stronger every day, scars fadingbut never forgotten, taking back everything that was stolen from her piece by piece.
Maybe it’s messy. But it’sours.
And when I picture it… all of us under one roof, surviving, fighting, laughing. For the first time, it doesn’t scare me—it feels like a home that I never got to have.
Chapter 12
Lottie
Hospitals always smell like endings.
Bleach. Metal. That faint sourness of too many bodies crammed into too few rooms. They’re not places for beginnings, even though doctors and nurses try to make them feel that way. They’re in-between spaces—where you sit and wait, where your life feels like it’s perched on the edge of a clipboard and a pen stroke.
So when Roman finally gets discharged, when the nurse wheels him out with a stack of papers and a glare sharp enough to slice through him, it feels like a held breath finally loosening in my chest. He looks pale, tired, his shoulder pinned tight in the sling, but he’s alive. And right now, alive is enough.
“Prisoners of war have more freedom than this,” Roman mutters as Will helps him into the SUV.
“Prisoners of war don’t get morphine,” Claire fires back, buckling him in like he’s a toddler.
“Details,” he smirks, but there’s a twitch in his jaw that betrays him.
The ride home feels cramped and restless. I’m wedged againstRoman. Oscar’s thigh presses solid against mine, grounding me. His hand brushes mine once, but it’s enough to steady me. And Archer. He doesn’t speak the whole ride. Just stares out the window, jaw tight, shoulders locked. The silence from him feels heavier than all the noise crammed into the car combined. Elijah and Crew have taken Elijah’s car.
Claire leans forward in her seat like she’s already cataloguing Roman’s meals and restrictions in her mind, and Will drives because he refuses to let Claire when he’s around.
Claire and Will’shouse is big enough to hold us, but stepping inside with Elijah and Crew carrying boxes and bags feels cramped and intrusive. There’s a hum of energy, too sharp to be comfortable, too restless to feel settled.
Roman immediately claims the couch like a king, laying claim to a throne.
“You’re not staying there,” Claire tells him, arms crossed.
“Watch me.” He stretches out, wincing when the sling bites into his shoulder, but he grins through it. “This couch and I are bonded now. Can’t be separated.”
Crew drops beside him with a sigh, flopping dramatically until Roman grunts at the jostle. “Guess I’ll have to be your nurse, then. Want me to put on a sexy nurse outfit?”
Roman raises a brow. “What, you gonna spoon-feed me?”
