Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
LUCAS
I’m on the floor, knees pulled tightly to my chest, back pressed to the huge couch in Alexander’s living room like it might hold me together if I push hard enough.
My arms are locked around my legs, my fingers digging into the fabric of my pants.
If I let go, I’ll fall apart completely.
It’s a position I stay in to anchor myself when I am deep in thought and trying to help my brain relax.
I Keep glancing at the clock.
Again. And again.
My eyes sting every time I check and see that he’s still not here.
3:18 a.m.
3:22.
3:30.
A breath shudders out of me. My throat is tight, like I’ve been swallowing tears without realizing.
God. He left, and I don’t know where he went. I don’t know when, or if he’s coming back. All I know is the look he gave me before he walked away haunts me.
That look.
I didn’t think someone like him could wear pain like that. Not Alex, the man with the cold blue gaze who doesn’t make empty threats or promises.
But I saw it, I saw the hurt, and it broke me.
He looked at me like I was the one person who could ruin him. And I did.
I didn’t mean to flinch.
I didn’t mean to pull away from him and into Tyler’s arms. But I was still trapped in that nightmare, still drowning in memories I can’t silence. For a second, I didn’t know who was touching me.
But it was him. It was Alex.
Tyler has always been there. He’s seen every broken version of me. He knows how to hold me when I break, and when to let go. And getting into his arms in that moment was familiar. But when I saw Alex leaving, saw his back as he walked out of the cinema room, something inside me snapped.
I had to find him.
I pulled away from Tyler, ran out, tried every room in the house, every hallway, but it was like chasing a ghost.
He was already gone.
Tyler found me eventually. He didn’t ask questions. He just brought me to the kitchen, gently sat me down, and pressed a glass of water into my trembling hands. I didn’t drink it. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking long enough to hold anything steady.
He wanted to ask—I could see it in his eyes. The way his mouth twitched like he was holding something back.
Why now?
Why this nightmare again, after months of being okay?
But then he looked at me. Really looked. And whatever question he had died on his tongue.
And I’m grateful for that.
When he finally had to leave, when the clock edged toward midnight and his early shift loomed, he lingered at the elevator, watching me like he wasn’t sure I’d survive the night.
“You’re staying?” he asked quietly.
I nodded.
I had to.
Because what if Alex comes back and I’m not here? What if he thinks I’m scared of him?
What if he thinks he was the monster in my nightmare?
That thought alone makes something hollow crack inside me.
So I stay.
And now it’s been almost three hours since Tyler left. Three hours since I’ve been sitting here on this cold floor, waiting.
And waiting.
Like some part of me will stop breathing if he doesn’t walk through that door.
I recheck the clock, even though I already know what it says, then I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to push back the guilt, the ache, the fear.
“Alex,” I whisper, voice raw and broken, “come back. I need you.”
It’s the only truth I have left.
Because I do.
I need him more than I’ve ever needed anyone. Not because of who he is, not just because he sees me, but because I love him.
And it terrifies me.
It’s not the kind of love I can name out loud yet. Not the kind that fits into clean, easy words. But I feel it in the way my heart panics every time the elevator doesn’t open. I feel it in the way my whole body aches for him, like it’s forgotten how to be calm without him near.
I didn’t even know someone like me could feel this much.
But I do.
I love him.
And the idea of losing him, the idea of driving him away because I reacted on instinct, because of my trauma—it’s unbearable.
I stare at the clock one more time.
3:57 a.m.
It’s like the numbers taunt me.
I can’t sit here any longer. My chest feels too tight, and my thoughts won’t stop looping. I stand up slowly, stiff from sitting on the floor so long, and make my way upstairs.
The hallway feels colder somehow, lonelier. Every step feels heavier than the last.
I push open the door to his bedroom. The scent of him lingers in the air, something dark, clean, and achingly familiar; it nearly undoes me.
The lights in the huge bathroom flicker on as I step inside.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and I almost don’t recognize the person staring back. My eyes are red-rimmed and hollow, my cheeks tear-stained, my hair a curly mess. I look like something broken.
And maybe I am.
I lean closer, fingers gripping the edge of the sink as I inhale slowly, then let it out in a deep, shaky breath. It rattles in my chest like something sharp trying to escape.
I strip off my clothes, slowly, carefully, as though shedding not just fabric but everything I’ve been feeling for the past few hours. The guilt. The fear. The unbearable silence.
The water is warm, gentle even, but it doesn’t wash away the ache lodged beneath my ribs. I scrub harder than I need to. My face. My arms. My hands. Over and over, like the friction might distract me from the gnawing worry twisting deep in my chest.
Where is he?
Is he safe?
I step out of the shower, towel off with shaking hands, and make my way into his closet, the one that’s far bigger than my entire bedroom back home. Everything inside it smells like him. Leather. Cologne.
I run my fingers over his clothes. Suits. Jackets. Coats. Rows of polished shoes, expensive watches lined in perfect rows like time itself bows to him. My fingers pause on a white button-up t-shirt, its soft and oversized.
I take it down and slip it on.
It swallows me whole, hanging loose and just past my thighs enough to cover my underwear. The sleeves drown my hands, but I don’t mind. I like it.
It makes me feel like I’m wrapped in him. Like he’s still here. Holding me.
He always likes it when I wear his clothes, even though I have some of mine here now—new ones, too, the ones he insisted on getting me when we went to the mall for Tyler’s birthday shopping, and whenever he takes me to wherever he goes.
I check the time again.
4:20 a.m.
Still nothing.
I sigh, dragging myself downstairs to the kitchen. My head feels foggy. I just need something warm, something bitter to hold onto. I reach for a mug, just as I am about to move to the coffee machine,
The elevator dings.
My breath catches.
Footsteps echo. Heavy. Steady. Familiar.
I bolt to the living room, and there he is.
Alex.
He steps into the penthouse like a storm held at bay, but then stops walking when he sees me.
He’s holding a Helmet in one gloved hand and dressed in a compression shirt that clings to his chest and muscles like a second skin.
He looks powerful, untouchable, and so breathtaking that my chest tightens.
But then I see it—a bruise blooming along the edge of his jaw, like a cut, its faint but unmistakable. My brows pull together before I can stop them.
He just stands there, unmoving, his gaze locked on me. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but his eyes… those cold, searing blue eyes… they betray him.
There’s anger in them. A bitterness. But under it, beneath the storm, I see it.
Relief.
Like, he didn’t expect me to still be here. Like he thought I’d be gone.
He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
But my feet begin to carry me toward him anyway. Slow, quiet steps over the marble floor. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I’m standing just a few feet from him. My fingers tremble slightly at my sides, but I don’t hide them.
His eyes don’t leave me. Not once.
I want to speak. I want to tell him I didn’t mean to flinch. That it wasn’t him in the nightmare. That the look he gave me before he left—like I’d gutted him with my action, has haunted me more than anything else tonight.
But the words stay locked in my chest.
So I just look at him. Really look at him.
The man who came back home bruised.
The man who makes my heart hurt when he’s not near.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper.
His jaw clenches. His throat bobs with a swallow, but his eyes still don’t leave mine.
I lift my hand slowly, carefully, my fingers ghost across his bruised jaw, the tips brushing with a featherlight touch. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move at all. He just breathes through his nose like he’s trying to keep himself in his skin.
His gaze drops to my lips, then to the oversized shirt I’m wearing—his shirt.
Something flashes in his eyes. Hunger, maybe. Or resistant.
I don’t know.
His eyes lifts to my lips again, then back to my face.
“I’m sorry, Alex.” My voice is barely there. “I’m so sorry.”
His jaw tightens beneath my palm. I feel how hard he clenches it. But then, for just a second, his eyes soften a little.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says, voice low and steady.
That makes it worse somehow. I blink fast.
My fingers slip away from his skin.
“Then why did you leave?”
He doesn’t answer.
His eyes drag down my body again. Slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize what he’s missed or trying to convince himself not to touch me.
When his eyes meet mine again, I’m already unraveling.
He exhales sharply.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
There’s no sharpness in his voice.
No anger.
But it’s strained. Tense. Like he’s choking on restraint. Like if he doesn’t get out of this room, he’ll do something he’s not ready for.
And just like that, he steps past me.
Doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t look back.
The air that rushes into the space he leaves behind is cold and too quiet.
I turn slowly, watching his back disappear up the stairs.
***
I'm leaning against the bathroom door, pressing my shoulder into the cool wood like maybe, just maybe if I stay still enough, everything will make sense.
But it doesn’t.