Chapter 19
brAYDEN
Every mile on the road isn’t enough to outrun the fury burning through my veins. I can still feel Ethan’s throat beneath my forearm, the give of his windpipe, how fucking close I came to crushing it completely. Three more seconds of pressure, and the world would’ve had one less piece of shit in it.
I shouldn't have let her stop me.
The wind whips around us as I push the bike faster feeling Cece's arms tighten around my waist. Her body trembles against my back, whether from the cold or the aftershock, I can't tell.
Probably both. The red marks on her wrists flash in my mind with every blink—perfect impressions of that motherfucker's fingers marking what's mine.
What's mine. The thought hammers through me with each heartbeat. She's mine to protect, mine to keep safe, and I fucking failed.
I pull off the main road, cutting down a side street that leads to Jillian’s property.
Cece doesn’t question where we’re going, just holds on tighter as we take the curves too fast. I need to get her somewhere safe—somewhere I can make sure she’s okay, somewhere I can finally let this anger out before it burns me alive from the inside.
When we reach the guesthouse, I kill the engine but don’t move immediately. I need a moment to get myself under control. To push down the urge to get back on this bike, track Ethan down, and finish what confrontation I started.
I feel Cece’s hands slide around to my chest, her touch light but steadying. She seems to sense I’m hanging by a thread.
“Brayden,” she murmurs, her voice soft against my ear. “Let’s go inside.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My hands are still shaking with adrenaline as I dismount the bike and help her down.
She winces when she pulls off the helmet, and that small flash of pain sends another surge of fury through me.
I want to punch a wall—anything to drown out the image of what I’d do if Ethan were in front of me right now.
I unlock the door and guide her inside, my hand resting protectively at the small of her back. Once we’re in, she stands in the middle of the living room, looking lost, arms wrapped around herself as though she’s trying to keep everything from unraveling.
“Do you want some water?” I ask, desperate for something normal to do—anything that doesn’t involve imagining all the ways I could make Ethan pay.
She shakes her head. “I just need…” The words fade, unfinished.
I move toward her carefully. When I reach her, I take her hands in mine and turn them over, examining her wrists. The marks have deepened, faint red bands that’ll bloom into bruises by morning. I brush over them with my thumbs, keeping my touch as gentle as I can manage.
I’m going to kill him. Plain and fucking simple. It isn’t a question of if—it’s when.
The thought is so sharp, so vivid, it nearly slips past my lips. I choke it back, but the taste of violence lingers on my tongue, cold and metallic.
“I need to clean these. Sit down.”
She obeys without argument, sinking onto the couch while I head to the bathroom for the first aid kit. My hands are still shaking when I return, but I force them steady as I kneel in front of her.
“This might sting,” I warn, dampening a cotton pad with antiseptic. There are small crescent marks where his fingernails dug into her skin. I dab at them gently, watching her face for any sign of pain.
“I'm sorry,” she whispers, and something inside me snaps.
“Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for him.”
“I should have—”
“No.” I look up from her wrists and meet her gaze. “He followed you into that bathroom. He put his hands on you. There’s nothing you should or shouldn’t have done.”
She bites her lower lip, blinking hard as tears threaten—but refuse—to fall. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone as badly as I want to hurt Ethan in this moment. The need for violence sits in my chest like a living thing, coiled and ready to strike.
The cotton pad tears in my hand. I force myself to breathe, to keep my grip gentle on her wrists, even as frustration pulses through me.
“I should’ve killed him,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She shakes her head, a single tear finally trailing down her cheek. “And then what? You’d be in prison, and he’d still win.”
“He’d be dead. Sounds like a win to me.”
“Brayden.” She cups my face in both hands, firm but tender, anchoring me. “I don’t need you to kill for me. I need you here. With me.”
I close my eyes and lean into her touch. Her hands are soft, warm—a lifeline. I want to believe her. Want to let it go. But the image of Ethan’s hands on her plays again behind my lids, relentless and vivid.
“He was going to hurt you,” I say hoarsely. “And he would’ve done worse if I hadn’t shown up.”
“But you did show up.” Her thumbs move in slow strokes along my cheekbones. Only then do I notice how tightly my jaw is clenched, the ache settling into bone.
“You protected me.”
“Not enough. Not soon enough.”
I open my eyes to find her watching me, steady and shining with unshed tears. Silent proof that she’s still here, still shaken, still strong.
“If I’d been there a minute later—”
“But you weren't.”
I pull away from her touch, standing up so abruptly that she flinches. The movement sends another spike of fury through me. She shouldn’t be flinching. Not around me. Never around me.
“I need a minute,” I mutter, striding into the kitchen. I brace both hands on the counter, fighting to breathe through the red haze tightening my vision. My heart slams against my ribs, each beat sending another rush of fury through my system.
I hear her soft footsteps behind me but don’t turn. I can’t. Not with my hands still shaking. Not with the storm in my head refusing to settle.
“Brayden,” she says quietly. “Talk to me.”
“You don’t want to know what’s in my head right now.”
“I do.” Her hand lands between my shoulder blades, barely a touch, but enough to ground me for half a second.
“I’m thinking about finding him.” The words scrape out of me before I can stop them.
“Cornering him somewhere no one can interfere. Making sure he finally understands fear. Making sure he pays for what he did to you.”
The confession hangs there—raw, unfiltered, dangerous—and once it’s out, there’s no pulling it back.
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't look at me with disgust or fear. Her hand stays steady against my back.
“And then what?” she asks softly.
“Then I'd make him apologize to you. Make him crawl on his knees and beg for forgiveness before I finish him.”
“You don't mean that.”
I turn to face her, meeting her eyes so she can see exactly how serious I am. “I do mean it. Every fucking word.”
She studies my face, her expression unreadable. Then she reaches for my hand, the one clenched in a white-knuckled fist on the counter. Her fingers slide over mine, gentle but insistent, until I let her pry them open.
Her touch is too gentle for the monster I'm becoming. I want to pull away, to keep her at a distance from everything boiling inside me, but I'm too fucking selfish. I need her hand in mine, need her touch.
“I wish I could tell you I don't mean it. That I'm just angry and saying shit I don't mean. But I can't lie to you, Cece. Not about this.”
She intertwines her fingers with mine, and I watch her smaller hand vanish in my grasp. The contrast hits hard—her soft skin against my rough palm, her healing wrist beside my scarred knuckles. Everything about her feels too good, too untouched by the world I come from.
“I understand wanting to hurt him,” she says quietly. “Believe me, I do. But revenge isn’t worth losing yourself over.”
I laugh, the sound rough even to my own ears. “Losing myself? Princess, this is me. The violence, the fury. It isn’t some extra part I can switch off. It’s woven into who I am.”
“No.” She shakes her head and steps closer, her warmth brushing against me. “That isn’t the whole of you. I’ve seen the rest, even if you can’t.”
I want to believe her. God, I want to. But the anger still beats under my skin, a relentless second rhythm demanding release. She thinks she sees something in me worth saving—something I’m not convinced exists.
“You’re wrong.” Her closeness is doing something to me, making it harder to hold onto the fury. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“I know exactly what you're capable of.” Her hand reaches up to touch my face again, and I fight the urge to lean into it like some touch-starved animal. “I saw you stop today when every instinct was telling you not to. That took more strength than giving in ever would.”
I close my eyes, unable to face her. The faith she has in me cuts deeper than any condemnation.
“Don’t put me on some fucking pedestal, Cece. I’m not a good man.”
“I’m not asking you to be good,” she whispers, her thumb stroking gently along my cheek. “I’m just asking you to be here. With me. Not out there hunting him down.”
When I finally look at her, she’s watching me with a quiet intensity that steals the breath from my lungs.
No fear. No judgment.
Just love—or something dangerously close to it.
“I can't promise I won't hurt him if I see him again,” I admit. “I can't promise that.”
“I know.” She nods, still not pulling away. “But right now, I need you more than I need you to avenge me.”
The need for violence doesn't disappear—it's still there, simmering under my skin—but it recedes just enough for me to breathe again.
“What do you need?” I ask. “Tell me what you need from me right now.”
She steps closer, eliminating what little space remains between us. “Just hold me,” she whispers. “Just make me feel safe.”
I wrap my arms around her, careful not to squeeze too tight despite the urge to crush her against my chest. She melts into me, her body softening as she presses her face into my shirt.
I can feel her tears soaking through the fabric, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs she's been holding back since we left the restaurant.