Chapter 13
brAYDEN
I wake to the unfamiliar weight of a woman’s body pressed against mine. Not just any woman. Her.
For a moment, I lie completely still, convinced that if I move, she’ll vanish. That last night was just another fucked up dream my brain cooked up to punish me.
But she’s warm. Solid. Real. Her dark hair spills across my chest, catching the thin strips of morning light sneaking through the blinds. One of her legs is thrown over mine, her breathing slow and steady against my skin.
Cece. In my bed. Wearing nothing but the marks I left on her.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve had women. More than I probably deserve. But waking up with her tucked against me, fitting there with an ease that unsettles me, feels like something entirely different—something I was never meant to cross into.
I should get up. Make coffee. Put some distance between us before she wakes and reality hits. Before she remembers who I am and starts regretting every moment of last night.
Instead, I pull her in closer. Her scent hits me, sweet and warm, tangled with sex and my own skin. She smells like mine.
Fuck.
She stirs against me with a soft little sound that curls straight down my spine. My body reacts immediately, pressing hard against her thigh. She feels it. I know she does.
Her lips curl into a smile against my chest before her eyes even open.
“Good morning,” she murmurs. The sleepy rasp in her voice does dangerous things to me.
“Morning,” I manage, trying to keep my voice neutral. Like I wake up with her every day. Like this isn't reshaping everything I thought I knew.
When she finally looks up at me, her eyes are clear. No regret. No panic. Just Cece—looking at me as though I matter.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she says, stretching against me with lazy confidence. The shift of her body sends warmth sliding across my skin, and I have to steel myself.
“Just wondering if you’re having second thoughts,” I admit, because there’s no point in pretending otherwise.
She props herself up on one elbow, hair falling in a curtain around her face as she studies me. The sheet slips down, exposing the curve of her breast, marked with faint bruises from my mouth. Pride and a deep, unsettling satisfaction curls through me at the sight.
“Are you?” she asks.
I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. “Fuck no.”
Her smile is slow, satisfied. “Good.” She leans down and presses her lips to mine, the ease of it making it feel as though this has always been ours. “Because I’m not either.”
Relief hits me harder than it should. I slide my hand into her hair, holding her there for another kiss, deeper this time. She makes that little sound again, the one that makes me want to bury myself inside her all over again. My hand slides down her back, tracing the curve of her spine.
“I should probably warn you,” she says, pulling back just enough to speak against my lips. “I'm not usually a morning person.”
“Could've fooled me,” I mutter, my hand finding the curve of her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp.
She bites her lip, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “You're a bad influence.”
“Baby, you have no idea.” I roll us so she's beneath me, her hair fanned out across my pillow like spilled gold. The sight of her there—sleep-warm and marked up, looking at me—it does something to my chest. Something I'm not ready to name.
I'm about to show her exactly how bad an influence I can be when her phone chimes from somewhere on the floor. She groans, dropping her head back against the pillow.
“Ignore it,” I growl, dipping my head to taste the hollow of her throat.
“I can't.” She squirms beneath me but makes no real effort to get away. “It could be my dad.”
The mention of her father douses everything in an instant. Right. Her Preacher father. Whose daughter I thoroughly defiled last night. Multiple times.
I roll off her with a grunt, immediately missing her warmth. “Go ahead,” I say, watching as she scrambles to find her phone in the tangle of clothes we left on the floor.
She hesitates, then slides out of bed. I peek at her from under my arm, watching as she moves naked across my bedroom, all soft curves and faint bruises.
My marks. My claim. I've never been particularly possessive before, but something about seeing her wear the evidence of last night makes my blood run hot.
She digs through our discarded clothes, finding her phone in the pocket of her jeans. When she checks it, her whole body goes rigid.
“Shit,” she mutters. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I sit up. “What is it?”
“My dad,” she says, her face going pale. “He's sent me five texts and called twice.”
I sit up straighter, watching as she scrolls through her messages, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth.
“What does he want?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Daddy's little girl didn't come home last night. And I'm the reason why.
“He's worried sick. Says he waited up until midnight, then started calling hospitals.” She looks up at me, panic replacing the soft contentment from moments ago. “He's threatening to call the police if I don't respond in the next thirty minutes.”
“So call him,” I say, trying to sound casual even as something tightens in my chest. This is how it starts—reality crashing in. Her remembering who she is, who I am, and all the reasons this was a mistake.
She nods, but doesn't dial. Instead, she stares at her phone as if it might bite her. “What do I even tell him?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, suddenly aware of my nakedness in a way I wasn't before. “Whatever you want. That you stayed with a friend. That you're fine. Or tell him the truth—that you spent the night getting fucked six ways to Sunday.”
“Don't be an asshole.”
“Just being realistic, princess.” I stand, grabbing my boxers from the floor and stepping into them. “I'm just saying, you've got options.”
The hurt in her eyes shifts to something more complicated. Not anger, exactly, but enough to know that I am fucking this up already.
“Is that what you want me to do?” she asks. “Lie to him? Pretend this didn't happen?”
I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly feeling cornered. “I want you to do whatever makes this easier for you.”
“That's not an answer, Brayden.”
She's right, and we both know it. I'm dodging, because the truth is I don't know what I want her to do.
Part of me—the part that's been keeping people at arm's length my whole life—wants her to lie.
Keep me separate from her real life. The other part, the part I don't recognize, wants her to claim me.
“Look,” I say, grabbing my jeans. “Call your dad. Tell him you're safe. The rest...we can figure out later.”
She watches me for a long moment, then nods, her shoulders slumping slightly. She dials, pressing the phone to her ear while I try not to eavesdrop on her conversation.
“Dad? Yes, I’m fine. I’m so sorry I worried you.” Her tone softens, slipping back into the polished composure she carried the first time I saw her in town. It’s a mask settling into place.
But then something changes. Her spine lengthens, her shoulders lift with purpose, and a new steadiness sharpens her words.
“No, Dad.” she says firmly. “I'm with Brayden.”
I freeze in the middle of zipping up my jeans. Did she just...?
“Yes, I stayed with him last night.”
Holy shit. I wasn't expecting that.
“No, Dad, I’m a grown woman.” Her tone rises, edged with frustration. “I’m thirty-two years old. Who I spend my time with is my business.”
I can hear the tinny murmur of her father on the other end, though not the words. Whatever he’s saying makes Cece’s jaw tighten.
“That's not fair and you know it.” She paces a few steps, her free hand gesturing emphatically.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching this unfold. I should probably give her privacy, but I can't make myself walk away. Not when she's defending me to her father.
“No, I will not pray for redemption. If you think I need prayers for spending the night with a man who has made me feel more in the last few days than in the last few years I spent married to Ethan, then maybe we need to have a different conversation about faith.”
The fire in her is something to witness.
She stands there with nothing but determination, gripping her phone as if it’s a shield while she defends what happened between us.
I should feel smug watching her take her holier-than-thou father down the few pegs he’s earned, but part of me knows this surge of courage might be fleeting—a moment of boldness she may second-guess later.
“No, I won't be coming home right now.” Her voice drops, hardening into something I haven't heard from her before. “I'll come by later today to talk. But right now, I'm hanging up.”
She pulls the phone from her ear, her thumb hitting the end call button with more force than necessary. For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the dark screen, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Well,” she says finally, not looking at me, “that went about as well as expected.”
“You could have just lied to him, Cece.”
She turns to face me, chin tilted up in defiance.
“I could have,” she shrugs. “But I was taught lying is a sin.
I'm done hiding. Done letting other people decide who I should be.” She runs a hand through her tangled hair, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as her gathering her thoughts.
“I spent my entire marriage pretending to be someone I’m not. I won't do it again.”
My throat feels tight. “Even if it costs you?”
“Fuck the costs.”
My eyebrows shoot up at the curse coming from her perfect lips. I can't help the laugh that erupts from my chest, breaking the tension between us.
“Well, goddamn, princess. That's quite the dirty little mouth you suddenly got there.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a spark of playfulness dancing there that sends a pulse of heat through me.