Chapter 7
Josephine
Traveling to the mansion by all-terrain vehicle is an entirely different experience than traveling by boat.
We circle the house and park outside the garage that until now I thought only stored WaveRunners and fishing gear.
Not sure how I missed the massive armored vehicle they’ve been keeping in there, too.
Though I suppose I’ve been more than a little preoccupied since taking up residence in the Crusade Mansion.
As I step through the side door, my body eases. The vibrant colors of the setting sun flood through the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the great room, immediately filling me with a small shred of peace I haven’t felt in days.
We all shuffle into the house, discarding shoes and stifling yawns. The smell of butter and garlic wafts from the kitchen, and Mrs. Lansbury’s humming from the same direction takes another pound of weight off my chest.
Hunter blows past me, with Greedy hot on her heels.
They’re no doubt locked in another battle of wills.
From what I’ve gleaned over the last six hours, that’s their default setting.
It doesn’t bode well for the atmosphere in the house over the next few days.
It’s going to be all managing egos and navigating an intense rivalry, sprinkled with the tension that constantly swirls around the stepsiblings, while we figure out how to coexist.
Kendrick heads off to his room. The move is unsurprising, though I can’t say the same for Locke’s exit. To my surprise, he makes a show of skirting along the edge of the corridor, almost as if he’s trying not to touch me.
“Emo Boy,” I call to him softly.
He stops dead in his tracks, peeking over his shoulder and wearing a sheepish grimace.
I tilt my head and take him in while I formulate my question. “What’s wrong?” feels too trite when so much of what went down over the last few days isn’t okay.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
A spark of guilt ignites behind his hazel eyes, turning their usual warmth into a heat that’s just a little uncomfortable, but he offers me a sympathetic smile in response. “K and I have to be at the field house in less than an hour. Later?” he offers.
I nod, resigned to waiting to clear the air with him. At least we have a tentative plan to talk. I can’t stand the aloofness and the hesitancy in every one of his looks and actions. He’s treating me as if I’ll break. Or as if I’m already broken.
He takes off toward the stairs without another look back. As he hauls himself up the steps like his feet weigh fifty pounds each, Decker’s voice echoes from the upper deck—likely because he’s on the phone.
Despite knowing the whereabouts of every person in the house, I startle when Kylian crowds my back and wraps his arms low around my waist.
Tracing my fingers down his arms, I melt into him, letting him support my weight.
God, it feels so good to let him hold me.
The panic and the sedation left me in a haze for hours, but I had this bone-deep sense—this physical ache—that kept reminding me there was a balm.
My heart knew the remedy; my instincts knew there was something—someone—out there who could make the darkness less bleak.
It was him all along.
Kylian’s been my safe place for weeks. I need him like I need my next breath.
When I rest my head on his chest and tilt my chin, I suck in a harsh breath, and my heart, which has finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm after days of disorder, lurches. I might need him, but the look in his eyes makes it clear that he needs something else.
He looks wrecked in the worst possible way. Sleep-deprived. Agitated. Worse than any of the other guys now that I really take the time to assess him.
“I overheard Decker say you haven’t slept,” I confess, tracing the muscles in his forearm as he rests his chin on my shoulder.
He exhales near my ear, his breath a warm caress along my collarbone as his arms tighten around my middle.
But then the silence drags on, and he doesn’t answer.
“Kylian,” I urge. I try to turn in his arms, but his grip is too strong. There’s an intense determination in the way he’s holding me, like he never wants to let me go.
“You need sleep,” I admonish as softly as possible, straining against his hold until he finally lets me free.
He blinks at me instead of replying, cool cerulean blue eyes bloodshot and watery behind his glasses. His Adam’s apple dips with a rough swallow, then he clears his throat and grits out, “Not yet.”
Like a shot, he takes off down the hall. He doesn’t say a word, but instinct tells me he wants me to follow.
My body aches with each step. I’m wobbly and off-kilter, but I’m determined to stick with him.
Mrs. Lansbury calls out to us as Kylian tears through the kitchen. All I can do is offer a placating smile and a quick wave as I trail after him as fast as I can.
He pushes into the dining room, of all places, but he doesn’t bother to flick on the lights. So in the quickly darkening room, he stalks to the far wall, then paces the length of the table—hurried, rhythmic steps followed by a sharp pivot with a precision so severe it looks mechanical.
I watch, and I wait, my anxiety ratcheting up with each pass.
Shoulders sagging, I finally lean against the back of a chair opposite him, trying my best to be patient as he works out the thoughts consuming him.
He’s still pacing when my fingers start to tingle and my feet go numb.
I shift from hip to hip. I’m bone-tired and eager to sit or lie down, but I won’t rest until he does.
“Kylian,” I plead softly.
He whips his head in my direction, hitting me with a cold, hollow glare from behind his glasses. He softens the expression slightly when we lock eyes—almost as if he’s only now remembering where he is and who he’s with—but then he shakes his head resolutely. “Not yet.”
I’m so out of my depth. I don’t know what to do—how to help. Should I text one of the guys? Call in backup? Locke and Kendrick have probably already left for practice, but Decker is here somewhere.
No. My gut instinct says that’ll only make it worse.
But I’m not helping Kylian by just standing here, dead on my feet.
The pressure of unshed tears pulsates behind my eyes, and it’s all I can do to keep my body upright. I feebly track his path along the other side of the table.
His pacing is rhythmic, creating a thwomp-thwomp on the hardwood floor with each stride. The sound of his shoes hitting the floor, along with the metronomic whoosh of his harsh inhales and exhales, lulls me into a state of exhausted detachment.
After what feels like hours, he stops.
The abrupt silence jars me out of my trance. Snapping my head up, I survey him, looking for signs of his emotional state, wary of what comes next.
Kylian shoves a chair away from the table with so much force it clatters to the floor.
He steps up to the table, taking the place of the chair, and braces his arms wide on the glossy surface. Panting with the erratic vitality of a caged animal, he finally lifts his head and locks me in his sights like a predator assessing its prey.
The veins in his forearms become more pronounced with the strain of containing himself. He’s breathing like he’s just finished an intense workout, but the energy emanating from him is nothing like the relief and sense of accomplishment one might expect after a session at the gym.
He maintains eye contact for another breath before dropping his head so it hangs between his outstretched arms.
Spoken into the table, his words are almost indiscernible.
“There’s something I need to know.”
“Okay,” I hedge, swallowing back the lump in my throat.
Though I’m reluctant, it has nothing to do with my willingness to cooperate. I know how Kylian’s mind works: Black and white. Numbers and stats. I would never bullshit him or be purposely evasive. But with him in such an agitated state, my honesty might do more harm than good.
He lifts his head, seeking my gaze. He homes in on me, like he actually wants to look me in the eye. It takes concerted effort for him to do so and to maintain that contact; that I know for sure. That alone is evidence of how desperate he is for me to understand the gravity of his next words.
“I need you to tell me right now if this isn’t a thing for you.”
The statement comes out harsh and accusatory. Not an ounce of sugar coating.
Before I can digest the implication and formulate a response, he continues.
“This. Us. If it’s a no for you… If you’re going to leave again—”
Anger flares inside me, igniting a flame in my stomach and fueling my rebuttal.
“I didn’t leave, Kylian.”
How dare he. The fucking audacity. I was taken—my guard was down for one night just as I was settling in and beginning to trust in these guys, in this house, in our relationships. I never expected—
“Willingly,” he amends, his chest puffing as he works to control his breathing. “I know you didn’t go with them willingly, but the summation of your departure was cataclysmic, nonetheless. I can’t do that again, Jo. I won’t survive it. If there’s a chance you’ll leave, tell me now.”
Silence thrums between us, the tension so painfully acute it aches deep in my chest.
“Please,” he adds, his eyes full of anguish. “Cut me out right now while I’m still low. While the distance I have to fall isn’t so great.”
With his plea, all the anger, resentment, and tension building in me melt away.
Utter agony drips from every word of his request. The depth of my pain grows tenfold as his admission registers and I realize just how deeply he’s hurting.
Not because of me, but for me. For us.
Desperate to get to him, I pull back the chair I’m leaning on. The legs scrape hard against the floor, screeching with the force of the motion.
Despite all my aches, bruises, and bone-tired weariness, I climb onto the table.
Kylian watches, wide-eyed, as I shift forward, testing my weight and balance.
My battered kneecaps and my scraped palms press into the smooth surface, but I barely feel it.
All I feel is the gravity of him.
Of us.
The power of our connection, the inexplicable pull driving me forward.
I crawl across the tabletop, shaky but sure. When I’m close enough, Kylian’s fingers graze my neck and find purchase in my hair.
Trusting that he’ll hold me steady, I lift onto my knees and sit back on my heels. I splay my hands against his chest, then smooth them up and around his shoulders until I lace my hands behind his neck and pull him close enough that his lips brush against mine.
“I didn’t leave, Kylian,” I repeat, whisper-soft and placating.
Digging my nails into the short hair along his nape, I rest my forehead on his.
“I don’t want to leave you ever again,” I vow, my heart aching in my chest.
His eyes shutter behind his glasses. Though he hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, he trembles as he inhales. A single tear escapes, the moisture fogging just the corner of one lens.
And then he crashes his mouth against mine, lightning fast and with so much intensity I’d have tipped over if he wasn’t holding me so securely.
His tongue plunges into my mouth, claiming mine with a force I couldn’t match even on a good day.
So I don’t try. Without conscious thought, I submit, letting him feed me his tongue and moan into my mouth and nip at my bottom lip until we’re breathless.
“You’re mine, Jo,” he pants, strong hands gripping the hair at the back of my head as he moves me where he wants me. “You don’t get to leave. Anyone who tries to fucking take you—”
“I’m here,” I promise, meeting the demands of his mouth and clinging to his shoulders. “I’m here, Kyl. I’m here now.”
“Come up to the Nest,” he demands, cupping my ass and hauling me off the table.
I’m ready to agree, until I home in on his strained, bloodshot eyes.
Nuzzling into his shoulder, I shake my head. “I need you,” I whisper into his neck. Then I pull back so he can see my sincerity. “But I need you rested.”
A growl rips through his chest as he plops me unceremoniously back onto the table. From the determined set of his jaw, it’s obvious he’s ready to argue, so I bring one finger to his lips.
“You’re not okay,” I determine, unwilling to let him dispute the obvious. “And I’m not, either.”
His mouth snaps shut.
“I’ll be okay, but in order to get there, I need sleep. In my own room.” I add the last part quickly to discourage him from trying to sway me.
“Neither one of us will sleep if I come up to the Nest right now.” I give him a pointed look. “You need rest, and I need to convince my adrenals that I’m finally safe.”
“I’ll always keep you safe,” he grinds out, his persistence somehow even more intense. “Now that I know what’s at stake, no one is getting to you. I meant what I said, Jo. You’re mine. I’m never letting you go.”
If anyone else tried to claim ownership of me like that, I’d scoff and roll my eyes. But I know better than to push back against Kylian’s resolve. He means what he says, always.
And more importantly, I want to be his.
Changing tack, I loop my arms around his torso and gently tug on his body until he steps forward and settles between my legs.
“I want to be yours,” I promise. “But you could do an even better job of keeping me safe if you were rested.”
Looming over me, he wears a skeptical frown.
I’m working an angle, and he knows it. If I’m right, though, his sense of self-preservation is strong enough that he’ll let me get away with it.
Squeezing tighter, I breathe him in, filling my nostrils with the vibrant, lively blend of citrus and eucalyptus that has always calmed my anxiety.
“Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘put your own oxygen mask on first’?”
Brow furrowed, he assesses me.
“Those instructions are for people traveling on aircraft with children, Jo.”
“Fair point. If I call you Daddy, will you go upstairs and sleep?” I tease.
“If you call me Daddy, neither one of us is going to sleep anytime soon, and you know it.”
A grin blossoms on my face as I lean into our embrace. His hands travel up and down my back, and he takes another step closer, cocooning me in the safety of his hold as he returns my affection.
He kisses the top of my head, and I crane back to catch his lips.
“Sleep, Kylian. For me?”
He searches my face for so long I think he’ll argue, but then he kisses the top of my head again.
“For you,” he concedes. “But tomorrow, you’re in my bed.”