Chapter 53 #2
I almost hoped he would.
Beau must’ve seen it too because he smiled. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t reassuring. It was the kind of smile that said, I dare you.
“You think you know her? Think you know what you’re protecting?” Mike’s voice twisted with malice as he spat, “She’s barren. Did you know that?” His lips curled in satisfaction, like he had delivered some kind of fatal blow. “She can’t have kids. She’s not a real woman.”
Silence settled between us. I had never told Beau what happened to me. We hadn’t even seen each other since I ran away from the accident.
“You think that’s what makes a woman?”
Mike stayed quiet.
Beau didn’t.
“A woman is grit. She’s the kind of strength that don’t break, even after men like you try to break her,” he murmured.
“A woman is fire. She’ll fight like hell for what’s hers, for the people she loves, even when she’s got nothing left to give.
” He took another step forward, his presence swallowing up every bit of space between them.
“A woman is whatever she decides she is, and you? You don’t get a say in that. ”
Mike’s jaw tensed, his bravado slipping.
“You think he knows you?” he sneered. “Knows how crazy you are? How obsessed with dirt and washing your hands and your little health rules?” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh.
“You think he’s gonna put up with that? No man wants to deal with a woman who’s terrified of everything.
You are exhausting, Fable.” He spat the words like venom.
“A man wants a woman, not someone who treats life like one big fucking hand sanitizer commercial.”
My throat tightened, the words slicing through old wounds.
Beau only smiled. Slow. Easy.
“A woman,” Beau said, his voice like warm whiskey, “is someone who knows her worth. Someone who won’t settle for less than she deserves.
A real woman ain’t afraid to be exactly who she is.
” His gaze flicked to me, softening, something knowing, something sure settling in his features.
“And Fable?” He let out a small, appreciative breath. “She’s a damn beautiful woman.”
Tears fell.
Hot, silent, burning as they slipped down my cheeks.
I wasn’t crying for him. I wasn’t crying for what we were. I was crying for me.
For the girl who had once believed in the lies. For the girl who had let him convince her she was small, unworthy, too much and never enough all at the same time. For the girl who had walked away, but still carried the shame of why it had taken her so damn long.
Shame that still ate me raw.
Mike had spent years making me doubt myself, whittling me down to something he could control, and yet, standing there in the dark, my feet planted firmly in the dirt, I still felt him inside my head. The scars he left behind, the damage he had done to the way I saw myself.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fucking fair.
Beau hadn’t moved yet. He was still watching me, still letting me feel this, letting me breathe through the wreckage.
His stance shifted slightly, the slow roll of his shoulders, his jaw tight with the kind of restraint that only a man with absolute control could hold on to. And when he spoke, his voice was smooth but thick with quiet fury.
“I don’t ever wanna see your face around here again.”
Mike had already lost, but he was too much of a coward to go without taking a final shot.
“Yeah?” His laugh was sharp, hollow, bitter. “Well, have fun with my sloppy seconds.”
The words sliced straight through me, every ugly memory he’d left behind rising up like bile in my throat.
Beau didn’t even flinch.
He turned, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me, closing the space between us until he was there—a solid presence.
“You are my first, Fable.”
My breath caught.
Beau’s gaze flicked down, dragging over me, over the way I was still trembling, my hands curled into fists at my sides. When his eyes met mine again, they weren’t reassuring. They weren’t calm.
They were sure.
“You hear me?” he murmured, so only I could hear. “You’re not his anything. You never were. But you?” His voice dipped, warm and smooth and steady. “You’re my first.”
I didn’t know if I was still shaking from adrenaline or from the way those words settled inside me, anchoring me.
“Have fun with her.” Mike let out a sharp breath, then spun on his heel, stalking toward his truck.
The slam of the door echoed into the night. The rumble of his engine cut through the silence, and then he was gone, his taillights fading into the dark.
I stood there, the night air thick around me, my pulse still thrumming, my wrist aching from his grip.
Beau ran his eyes over my face, my arms, my hands. “You okay?”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “Y-yeah.”
He nodded almost absentmindedly. “Cool. I’ll just get back to my regularly scheduled ghost treatment, then.”
“Beau,” I whispered, barely holding it together. “Please. We should—”
He turned. He was . . . done. Done trying. Done hoping. I stood there, watching the one person who had ever seen through all my mess start to walk away. Again. Because I was the one who pushed him out.
That’s what I did. I pushed and pulled and retreated when it mattered most. I shut down, shut people out, built walls I didn’t even know how to tear down. And then I acted surprised when no one stuck around. I told myself it was protection, survival, some warped version of strength.
I was just scared. Of being seen. Of being known. Of my innermost secrets being exposed and left prey for anyone to hurt me with.
I was watching him walk away and realizing this might’ve been the last time he’d try. My stomach twisted. My hands trembled. I wanted to scream. Run after him. Take it all back.
Before I could even move, he stopped. He turned around slowly, his eyes locking on mine—fierce, tired, but still burning.
“Fuck it, Fable,” he said, voice hoarse. “I ain’t leaving.”
I froze.
“I’m gonna fight,” he continued, stepping closer, like the words were dragging straight from his chest. “I’ll fight because after all this? You’re worth it. After everything.”
“Me too,” I murmured, voice trembling as I stepped closer, closing the distance between us.
My fingers twitched at my sides. “I’m sorry I never answered the door, Beau. I’m so sorry.”
His jaw flexed, and his eyes—God, those eyes—held so much pain I could hardly stand to look at them.
“What happened, Fable? What happened to us?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” My shoulder sagged.
“Harleigh answered the door and told me you couldn’t come to it.
Not wouldn’t, but couldn’t. All I could think about was that night on the porch, the anniversary of my mom’s death.
You sat with me. Didn’t say much. Didn’t try to fix it.
You simply stayed.” His voice cracked, soft and broken.
“So I thought I was doing the same for you. I thought I was sitting with you in your grief . . . just giving you space the way you gave it to me.”
Tears burned my eyes. Guilt twisted so tight in my chest it felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“I did want space, but I ended up drowning in it.”
That was the truth—ugly, raw, all of it. I thought space would help me breathe, but it only made the silence louder, the voices screaming inside my head. I didn’t know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden.
“Come on, it’s cold out here. Let’s get you inside.”
I nodded without thinking, letting him guide me back into the house. His arm hovered close, steering me forward without ever touching my skin, until I stopped in the foyer.
“Wait.” I spun around so I was facing outside. “The bulls were in the arena. I was going to see if Kl—”
“We’ve got it under control. They got out when you were sleeping earlier, but Kline, the guys, and I managed to corral them back.”
My lower lip trembled. “I-I’m sorry,” I murmured as my knees buckled and I fell into his arms.