Chapter 35
The jostle of the plane and the wheels hitting the tarmac jolt me awake.
My heart jumps before my brain catches up, the sound of the engines slowing tugging me back from the fog of sleep.
For a second, I don’t remember where I am—only the hum of the engines and the heavy warmth pressed against my side.
The jet slows to a stop, and the sudden quiet feels strange after hours of white noise. My body aches in too many places to count, and when I stretch, a sharp hiss escapes me. Chris immediately straightens, his eyes flicking over me like he’s worried that makeshift Doctor Damon missed something.
His thumb rubs circles over the back of my hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, my voice still groggy. “Just sore.”
He nods, lips pursing tightly, but he says nothing more as the door opens and daylight floods the cabin.
Chris stands and offers me his hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.”
The word home hits something deep inside me. I let him guide me off the plane, my legs shaky but steady enough to make my way down the narrow stairs. The sun is blinding, and I squint, trying to see beyond the steps.
We’ve landed on a private airfield. There are a few small hangars that look to have been built in the last couple of years, surrounded by miles of open land beyond them. Beside the closest one are four vehicles, which I quickly assume belong to each of the guys.
Damon turns to Chris when we reach the tarmac. “You sure you’re good to drive?”
“Yeah,” Chris answers without hesitation. “I’m sure.”
Damon doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue. “We’ll follow in the SUV until we get back to the city. Just say the word if you need us.”
“I won’t.” Chris’s gaze sweeps the horizon once more, his eyes surveying for threats, even now. “All of you, watch your six. It might be safer here, but this goes higher than any of us thought. We’d be foolish to let our guard down.”
A chorus of “Roger that” follows, and the seriousness of their tones tells me that all of this is far from over.
Chris helps me into an old SUV parked beside the hangar. It looks like it has lived several lives before this one. The passenger seat creaks beneath me, familiar and foreign all at once.
“She looks good,” I compliment softly, running my fingers along the dashboard as he opens the driver’s side door. The truck smells faintly like grease and pine cleaner. “You finally got her up and running again.”
A hint of pride flickers across his face as he slides behind the wheel. “Took a lot of damn work. But yeah. She’s good as new.”
“I remember when you bought this thing,” I muse, smiling faintly. “She looked more like a heap of spare parts than a truck.”
“And I told you, I was determined to make it work.” He glances at me before starting the engine. “Guess I still am.”
The drive is quiet. Peaceful, almost. Miles of open road and the engine humming beneath us. “Where is home, anyway?” I ask, clueless as to where we landed.
“Chicago.” Chris merges onto the highway. “Not that I spend too much time here.”
He reaches across the console between us and rests his hand on my thigh, squeezing it tenderly.
As we drive deeper into the city, he glances over at me every so often, the look on his face almost like he can’t quite believe I’m really here.
We drive along a lush green park and pull up to the curb before a house that is similar in design to an NYC brownstone.
The gray brick and black-framed window home is beautiful. Although not at all what I expected.
After killing the engine, he steps out, circling to open my door before I can reach for it. His hand finds mine again as he helps me out of the Bronco, his fingers lingering like he’s afraid to let go.
Inside, the house feels both rustic and modern.
It’s warm. Lived in. Chris. Leather and wood decor fill the space.
A wall of bookcases—with books, surprisingly—is lined with framed photos of men in uniform and places I assume he has traveled.
I drag my fingers along the wood as I take in the massive brick fireplace on the opposing wall.
“Wow,” I breathe. “This place is beautiful.”
“Thanks.” He gives an awkward smile. “I gutted it room by room after… I needed something… steady. Somewhere to come home to.”
The unspoken truth hangs heavy between us. He rebuilt this place after us. After everything. My throat tightens, and my heart hurts a little, but I manage a small nod. “You did a great job. It really is beautiful.”
He shows me around the rest of the house: the kitchen, the office, the rooftop deck overlooking the park across the street.
It’s neat and organized. Every room carries a piece of him.
The white linens and soft throws throughout the house give it hints of feminine warmth beneath the masculine edges.
I’ve been here only a few minutes, but it feels like home.
Like even though he never expected me to be here, he still built it for us.
When he leads me down the hall to the master bedroom, I stop just inside the doorway. It’s simple. but perfect. A large bed with muted sheets faces the wall of windows with a gorgeous view of the lush park beyond them. Light spills from them across the maple floors, illuminating the entire room.
“And where’s my room?” I ask, half-teasing.
He turns to me slowly, eyes dark and mischievous as he arches a brow. “Your room?”
I tilt my chin up. “Yeah. I’m assuming I’m not sleeping in here.”
A faint smirk curves his lips. “Baby, this is your room. I want you in my bed. And at my mercy.”
“You think you can drag me halfway around the world and I’ll just willingly climb into your bed?”
“Yes.” His tone drops low, gravelly, and dangerous. “Because good girls listen to Daddy.”
He moves before I can react, pinning me to the doorframe.
The air leaves my lungs as his body presses against me, heat rolling off him in waves.
His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is nothing like the ones before.
It’s all-consuming, claiming what he wants.
His hand slides up my neck, fingers curling in my hair, and I melt.
“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers against my lips through our kiss, eventually pulling away to await my answer.
My hands slide over the firm muscles of his chest, feeling the solid thud of his heartbeat against my palms. I look up at him, and I’m utterly undone. “Good girls don’t tell Daddy ‘no.’”
The words are barely out of my mouth before his lips are on mine again—slower this time, reverent.
His touch turns gentle, careful of every mark, every bruise, every ache.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, and the hollow of my throat like he’s mapping the places he thought he’d never feel again.
He carefully pulls the too-big hoodie off me, letting it fall to the floor as he returns his attention to my body.
His palms skim my sides, and his breath ghosts over my body as he cautiously kisses over every inch of exposed skin.
He lifts me into his arms and carries me to the bed.
The mattress dips when he lays me on it.
Following, he carefully climbs over me. He braces a hand beside my head, his other tracing the length of my arm.
His fingers leave a trail of heat that makes my skin prickle with excitement.
Staring down at me, his gaze isn’t hurried or hungry as it rakes over my body. This isn’t spurred on by lust or need. It’s about finding something real after everything that has been ripped apart.
The corners of his mouth twitch upward as he adores me—admiring me even though I’m marbled in bruises—and I can’t help but smile back at him. Reaching up, I grab the shirt resting at the nape of his neck and pull it over his head.
He presses his lips to the crook of my neck, kissing the length of it until he reaches my ear. His lips dust around the shell of it, and he whispers, “Do you want Daddy to make you feel good?”