Chapter 16 Wilson #2
Tears carve lines down his cheeks, and seeing them breaks something inside me I didn’t know was still intact.
Nicholas Cavallero, this massive, patient, steady man who waited five years without complaint, is crying because he just learned I wanted him all along and I was punished for it.
“I’m sorry.” His voice shatters. “Will, I’m sorry.
I didn’t know. If I’d known, I would have—”
“You would have what? Fought Sebastian? He would have destroyed you.”
“I would have tried.” His thumbs trace my jaw. “I would have burned everything down to get you out.”
“I know.” My hand finds his wrist, resting over the one on my face. His pulse pounds beneath my fingers. “That’s why I never told you.”
Silence follows, full of our ragged breathing, both of us trying to hold ourselves together while the other watches. His forehead stays pressed against mine. His scent thickens, the amber deepening into something richer, the warmth wrapping us in the dark.
My hand moves from his wrist to his jaw, his stubble rough against my palm. His breath catches when my thumb traces the line of his lower lip.
“Nico.”
“Yeah.”
I step closer, needing more than just his touch and press my lips to his.
This kiss isn’t anything like the one from before, where he yanked me in and I fought back on pure muscle memory.
This time it’s slow. In the dark, my lips find his, my hand sliding up to cup his jaw and guide him.
When his mouth meets mine, it’s so gentle my chest tightens.
He kisses me like he used to touch me in Sebastian’s bed, as if I could shatter under too much pressure, each movement like he’s worshipping me.
My fingers thread through his curls, softer now and shorter than I remember.
He groans, the sound trembling against my lips when I tug him closer.
His hands cradle my face, tilting my head deeper into the kiss.
His tongue brushes mine, and a raw, open moan escapes me, nothing like the controlled sounds I let my ex draw from me.
This is different. This is the mouth I’ve dreamed of all these years, pressing against mine with no Sebastian in sight, no mark of ownership, no audience, just Nicholas’ trembling hands on my cheeks and the warm glow of him filling every breath, my heart pounding so fiercely I taste it in my teeth.
When we break apart, we’re both breathless. My hand remains tangled in his hair. His eyes open, red-rimmed, lashes heavy with moisture, an expression on his face I can’t name, something beyond desire or patience, like a man rediscovering a lost piece of himself.
“Will.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Your neck.”
I instinctively inch toward my collar, that old reflex drilled into me for two years. But Nicholas’ hand is already there, fingers resting gently on the fabric, neither pulling nor pushing, only asking.
“Can I see it?”
I cover his hand with mine, threading my fingers through his and guiding them down, pulling the fabric aside, exposing the ruined skin beneath. A rush of cool air hits the scar and I flinch, every muscle tensing at the vulnerability of being laid bare like this, in the dark, in front of him.
I feel his gaze on my neck, on the jagged ridge of healed flesh, the puckered scar that marks where a bond was ripped away. His free hand rises, fingertips trembling just above my skin. “Can I touch it?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
The first feather-light press of his finger against my scar sends a shiver through me.
He traces its edge where damage gives way to smooth skin, following the curve from below my ear toward my shoulder.
His breathing has gone shallow, his finger shaking as he maps the wound, learning its shape, its depth, and what was done to me.
“He did this to you,” he whispers, voice raw. “My brother did this. And I let it happen.”
I curl my hand around his wrist, holding his fingers gently against my neck.
“You didn’t let anything happen. I got it removed the only way I knew how.
” I could have waited for it to go through the legal channels but it would have taken years and proof I didn’t have.
Sebastian’s threats were never physical.
“I was there. In that bed, and I didn’t see—”
“No one saw. Sebastian made sure of that.” I press my palm to his wrist. “It’s not on you, Nico.”
He pauses at the deepest part of the scar, the center where the scar is thickest, where the flesh was torn away. His thumb brushes along the lower edge, tracing skin untouched for two years. My eyes close as tenderness overwhelms me, his care for the most painful part of me almost too much to bear.
“I used the same doctor.” I whisper the words, voice barely more than a breath. “Later. For someone else. An Omega who needed to get free the same way I did.”
Nicholas’ finger stills against my neck. “You helped someone else do this?” he asks.
“On my last day at Hearthstone. A kid named Luca who was trapped the same way I was. I gave him the number.”
He presses his forehead into my shoulder, his face against the curve of my neck opposite the scar.
His hand stays over the ruined skin, palm flat against the scar.
“You’re incredible.” His lips brush my throat.
“You survived that and then you turned around and helped someone else survive it. Will, do you have any idea what you are?”
I shrug, unable to lift more than a shoulder. “A mess. Mostly.”
He laughs, damp and raw against my neck. “A mess who saved someone’s life.”
My hand finds the back of his head as he pulls back and kisses me again.
It starts gentle, then his hand tightens on my neck, pressing his palm against the scar, claiming it with his warmth.
I open for him. My lips part, my tongue slides against his, and his groan vibrates through us both.
His other arm wraps around my waist, lifting me off the stool and pressing me against his chest and I let him, because my body has already decided, even if my brain is still running through all the ways this could end badly.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw. Down the side of my neck, following the line of my throat, and I feel the moment he reaches the edge of the scar. His lips press against the raised tissue and every muscle in my body locks.
“This okay?” His breath is warm against the scar.
“Yeah.” The word is barely a sound.
His mouth traces the scar the way his finger did, following the ridges, and the puckered edges, pressing gentle kisses against skin that has only known violence and surgical tools.
My grip on his hair tightens as a sound leaves my throat that I don’t recognize, something between a moan and a sob, and Nicholas’ arm tightens around my waist, holding me upright because my knees have decided they’re done participating.
His lips find the deepest part of the scar and press there as I shake against him, tears running down my face, but I don’t pull away. I don’t run. I stand in the dark with Nicholas’ mouth on the worst part of me and let him stay there.
When he lifts his head his eyes are shiny with tears and his lips are wet and his expression carries something that makes my breath hitch. “Will.”
And then he kisses me again.