Chapter 7 #2
The water was hot. Almost scalding. I cranked the handle all the way over and braced my hands against the tiles, letting the spray hit my neck, my shoulders, the spot between my shoulder blades that always ached at the end of a long day.
I needed to get my head on straight. I needed to forget how soft her mouth had been, how sweet she’d looked curled up in my arms, her knees tucked to her chest, blanket falling off her shoulder like she was waiting for me to fix her.
But I couldn’t.
I saw her every time I closed my eyes. That tiny, brave lean-in. The wobble in her chin. The way she’d tried to pull away so fast when I jerked back, like she’d just set the house on fire and didn’t know how to put it out.
I wrapped my hand around my cock. I didn’t mean to.
It just happened. One second I was promising myself I’d keep things clean, keep things safe, be the man she needed.
The next, I was hard as a goddamn rock, pressing my forehead to the tile, thinking about the way her lips had trembled against mine.
She’d let me hold her, trusted me, asked for me, and I’d left her hanging. Because I was afraid. Because I wanted her too much.
I stroked myself, slow at first, then harder.
My hand was rough, callused, not what she deserved, but it was all I had.
I imagined the way she’d fit in my arms every night, not just this once.
The way she’d look at me if I told her she was a good girl, if I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead and tucked her in every single night.
The way she’d smile when I called her baby-girl again, this time on purpose.
God, I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to make her laugh. I wanted to keep her safe and warm and never let her go.
I was so close already. It was fucking embarrassing. But I didn’t care. I braced one hand against the wall and fucked into my fist, gritting my teeth.
I thought about her in the kitchen, sleeves past her hands, flour on her cheek. I thought about her in bed, knees up, thumb in her mouth, bunny squished to her chest like a promise I’d made and she wanted to believe. I thought about the way she’d said please when she wanted the blanket up.
It was the please that did it. The way she’d trusted me, even when she was scared.
I bit back a groan as I came, hard, against the side of the shower. Didn’t matter. Water washed it away. I stared down at my hand, at the spray, waiting for my breath to come back.
I didn’t deserve her. I was too old, too fucked up, too rough. But for the first time in years, I wanted something more than I wanted my ordered life.
I wanted her.
Cas didn’t call unless she’d found something. I’d barely slept and like a coward run out before Holly was awake that morning.
“Tell me you’re sitting down,” she said, skipping the hello. “Got your background check,” she said. Her tone was wrong. The kind of voice she used when she didn’t want to hand me the knife I was about to stick between my ribs.
I wiped my hands on a rag. “Talk.”
“It’s the girl,” Cas said. “Your stray. Holly Turner.”
My shoulders stiffened. “What about her?”
“Her parents,” she said. “They’re alive.”
For a second I thought I'd heard wrong. “Alive?”
“Very much so,” Cas continued. “And not just alive—thriving. They run Clearwater Insurance.”
Everything inside me went still. The sound of the heater faded. The world tilted just slightly, enough that I had to reach for the edge of the workbench to steady myself.
“Their company is notorious for denying legitimate claims on technicalities. There’s a file on your father’s death—”
I didn’t need her to finish. I already knew.
Weston Construction.
My dad’s company.
My mom’s stroke.
All of it.
That was the same fucking name on the letterhead of the denial notice I’d kept in a drawer for years.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
“You sure?”
“One hundred percent.” Cas rustled some papers.
“George and Marianne Turner. Clearwater Insurance Agency, founded nearly thirty years ago by Elspeth and Harold Turner, George's mother and father. Expanded statewide five years back. I know I don't need to tell you the company’s been under scrutiny a few times—sketchy claims denials, aggressive policies, your standard corporate slime. Nothing that sticks, but the reputation’s ugly if you know where to look.”
The air felt heavier with every word because I knew all about them.
Cas didn’t stop. “You might really want to sit down for the next part.”
“I’m already sitting.”
“Good. Because their daughter—Holly—is the legal owner. And her signature’s on a batch of paperwork linked to disputed insurance payouts from two years ago. The kind that ruin small businesses.”
My hand clenched around the rag until my knuckles popped, and for too long white noise seemed to fill my head.
Cas kept talking, gently, aware that every word was cutting me open.
“Look, I can’t tell if Holly was directly involved or just a figurehead.
The company was left to her by her grandmother.
She’s not listed on payroll, but she was signing things.
I don’t think she’s innocent in all this.
Her fiancé—Vincent Hale—he’s deep into financial fraud, and he’s tied to the same firm Clearwater uses for legal representation.
If she’s running from anyone, it’s probably him. But if she’s playing you—”
“Fiancé?” I choked out.
There was a long pause on the other end.
“Blake,” Cas said carefully, “you need to keep your distance. Whatever story she’s told you, there’s a good chance it’s bullshit. The girl’s name is all over this, and Hale’s the kind of man who uses people until they break. Be smart.”
The line went dead.
I sat there a long time, staring at nothing. The heater hummed back to life, loud and hollow. My hand found the old scar on my palm—the one from the day I’d slammed a hammer through a board after Mom’s denial letter came.
Clearwater Insurance.
Holly.
My mother.
The girl I’d carried out of the dark, the one who looked at me like I’d hung the goddamn stars, was the owner of the company that’d ruined my family. That had just about killed my mom.
I’d believed every word she’d said. And now I didn’t know if she was terrified of monsters—or if she’d just been hiding the fact that she was one.
For the first time in years, I felt something tear in my chest—not the kind of anger that burned hot, but the cold kind that crept slow and deep.
Because I hadn’t just let a liar into my house.
I’d let her into the one place inside of me no one had been in a long time.
And that— that was on me.