Chapter 27 Cece #3
There’s a moment of hesitation before Jillian starts herding everyone toward the door. “Come on, let’s give them some privacy. I’ve got soup in the kitchen.”
My father lingers, his expression meeting mine with a question I can’t quite decipher. I give him a small nod, reassuring him that I’m okay. He returns it and follows the others, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him.
Joe waits until their footsteps fade before setting his briefcase on the foot of the bed and clicking it open. “I came as soon as I heard. Sheriff Miller called me directly.”
“How bad is it?” Brayden asks, his voice strained as he tries to shift into a more upright position. I quickly adjust the pillows behind him, my hand lingering on his shoulder.
“For Ethan? Very bad.” Joe's expression is grim but satisfied. “Multiple felony charges, including aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, violation of a protective order, attempted kidnapping, and driving under the influence. His blood alcohol was nearly twice the legal limit.”
“No chance of his father bailing him out?” I ask, relief and disbelief warring inside me.
“Not this time,” Joe says, pulling out several documents from his briefcase. “Mayor Kincaid may have influence, but the sheriff has dashcam footage of the end of the attack. Even Richard Kincaid can't make this disappear.”
“Good,” Brayden mutters, wincing as he tries to adjust his position again. I place my hand gently on his shoulder, silently urging him to stay still. The bruises on his face look even worse in the soft bedroom light, stark against his pale skin.
“There's more,” Joe continues, his expression serious. “The DA is considering adding attempted murder to the charges. The use of a tire iron shows deliberate intent to cause serious harm.”
“What about Brayden? He was defending himself—defending me.”
Joe nods, shuffling through his papers. “The sheriff's report clearly indicates self-defense. You won't face any charges,” he says directly to Brayden. “In fact, your actions may have saved Cece from serious harm.”
Brayden's hand finds mine.
“Ethan had handcuffs, chloroform, and ropes in the truck of his car.”
My blood freezes in my veins. “What?”
“The trunk search was conducted after his arrest,” Joe continues. “Sheriff Miller believes Ethan was planning to abduct you, possibly take you across state lines.”
The room reels around me. Chloroform. Ropes. The images slam into me—everything that might have happened if Brayden hadn’t arrived, if the police hadn’t intervened. My knees give way, dropping me onto the edge of the bed beside him, all strength draining from my limbs.
“Jesus Christ,” Brayden whispers, his fingers tightening around mine. Even through his pain, I can feel the protective rage radiating from him. “That son of a bitch was going to—”
“He didn't get the chance.”
Joe sets the papers down on the bed, his expression grim. “The evidence suggests this was premeditated. The restraining order pushed him over the edge, but he'd been planning something like this for a while.”
“How do you know?” I ask, struggling to breathe normally.
“The receipt for the chloroform was two days prior to the attack at the pizzeria,” Joe recalls.
My stomach lurches. I press my hand against my mouth, fighting the wave of nausea.
“Which brings me to your charges, Ms. Montgomery. In light of the circumstances, the charges against you have been dropped.”
“Good riddance,” I mutter, still processing the horror of what Ethan had planned.
“The prosecutor is pushing for denial of bail at the arraignment,” Joe continues, organizing his papers. “With this evidence, I don't see how any judge could grant it. Not even with Kincaid's influence.”
“So he's staying in jail?” I need to hear it confirmed, need to know that Ethan won't be walking free anytime soon.
Joe nods. “For the foreseeable future. The charges alone carry potential sentences of fifteen to twenty years. If they add attempted murder, we're looking at much more.”
I let out a shaky breath, relief washing through me. Brayden's hand tightens around mine, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin despite his obvious pain.
“What about the mayor?” Brayden asks. “He's not going to take this lying down.”
“Richard Kincaid is already attempting damage control,” Joe admits. “He's called an emergency press conference for tomorrow morning. My sources tell me he'll be announcing a leave of absence to support his family during this difficult time.”
“Damage control,” I repeat, bitterness coating the words. “That's all it ever is with him. His son tried to kidnap me, and he's worried about his public image.”
“Politics,” Joe says simply. “I have a feeling he will be resigning in the coming weeks.”
“Resigning,” I echo, trying to wrap my head around everything Joe has just told us. It feels surreal, like we've entered an alternate universe where the Kincaids finally face the consequences of their actions. “I never thought I'd see the day.”
“Richard Kincaid is many things,” Joe says, closing his briefcase with a definitive snap, “but stupid isn't one of them. He knows when to cut his losses.”
I glance at Brayden, whose eyes have grown heavy as the pain medication starts to take effect. The bruising along his jaw looks even more pronounced against his paling skin, but the lines of tension are softening. My heart squeezes at the sight of him, battered and broken because of me.
“I should let you rest,” Joe says, noticing Brayden's drooping eyelids. “The arraignment is scheduled for Monday morning. Neither of you needs to be there, but I'll keep you updated.”
“Thank you,” I say, rising to walk him to the door. My legs feel strangely disconnected, as though they’re moving on instinct rather than direction. Shock, probably. The full weight of what Ethan had planned still hasn’t settled in.
Joe pauses at the bedroom doorway. “One more thing,” he says quietly. “The sheriff mentioned that your father was quite...vocal at the station. Apparently, he gave Mayor Kincaid quite the dressing down when he showed up to try to handle things.”
“My father?” I blink, trying to process this new information. “He confronted Mayor Kincaid?”
Joe nods, a hint of admiration crossing his face. “According to Sheriff Miller, the Reverend quoted scripture while informing Richard exactly where he could expect to spend eternity after enabling his son's behavior. Quite colorful for a man of the cloth.”
I can't help the small laugh that escapes me, despite everything. The image of my father unleashing biblical fury on Richard Kincaid is both shocking and strangely satisfying. Maybe people really can change.
“Call me if anything changes or if you need anything at all.”
I walk Joe to the living room where everyone is gathered in awkward silence. My father stands when we enter, his face lined with concern.
“How is he?” he asks quietly.
“The medication's kicking in,” I reply. “He'll sleep soon.”
Joe shakes hands with Big and nods to the others before letting himself out. The click of the door seems unnaturally loud in the tense silence that follows.
Jillian breaks it first, rising from her perch on the armchair. “I'll get some soup for you both,” she says, patting my arm as she passes. “He'll need something in his stomach with those pills.”
I turn to my father, suddenly exhausted beyond words.
“I'm okay, Dad,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. “Just...processing everything.” I glance toward the hallway, suddenly desperate to be back with Brayden. “I need to check on him.”
“Go,” my father says, surprising me with his understanding. “We can talk tomorrow.”
I nod, unable to find more words.
Jillian appears from the kitchen with a tray holding two bowls of soup and some crackers. “Take this.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, accepting the tray. My arms feel leaden, my body moving on autopilot.
“We'll stay in the living room,” Big says, his deep voice oddly comforting. “Nobody's getting past us tonight.”
The implicit promise in his words steadies me. I manage a small smile before heading back to the bedroom, balancing the tray carefully.
Brayden’s eyes are closed when I enter, but his hand reaches out for mine as I set the tray on the nightstand. “Thought you left me,” he mumbles, the words slightly slurred from the medication.
“Never,” I answer, carefully, perching on the edge of the bed. “Just getting you some soup. Jillian’s orders.”
His gaze flickers open, unfocused and heavy-lidded. “Not hungry.”
“You need to eat something with those pills,” I insist, dipping the spoon into the steaming broth. “Just a few bites.”
He grimaces but doesn’t argue as I hold the spoon to his lips. The simple act of watching him struggle to swallow breaks something inside me.
“Why are you crying?” he asks, his fingers brushing weakly against my cheek.
I hadn’t realized I was. “Because I hate seeing you hurt,” I admit, wiping at the tears with the back of my hand. “And because I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened.”
“But it didn’t. We’re both here. We’re okay.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak as I offer another spoonful of soup. He takes it obediently, wincing as the movement pulls at his split lip.
When he finishes, I set the bowl aside and smooth the blanket over his chest. “You need to get some sleep,” I say softly.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, eyes half-open.
“No,” I counter, brushing my hand along his arm. “You’re exhausted. Close your eyes.”
His lashes lower a fraction, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bossy woman.”
“Someone has to keep you in line,” I whisper, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
His lips twitch in a tired smile. “Good luck with that, princess.”
The nickname hits me with a quiet thud in my chest. Gentle. Familiar. Safe in a way nothing else has been today.
The tears come again, but they don’t burn this time. They feel clean, as if something inside me is finally letting go.
I lean in and press my lips softly to his bruised jaw. “You don’t get to scare me again,” I whisper.
His hand lifts weakly, fingertips skimming my wrist. “Then come here.”
“Brayden—”
“I’m not arguing,” he says, eyes barely open but still locked on mine. “The only way I’m getting any sleep tonight is if I know you’re right next to me.”
My breath hitches. “You should be resting, not… whatever you’re thinking.”
He gives a quiet, rough laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m too beat to think about anything except this bed. But I sleep easier with you beside me.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You calm me down.”
Heat flutters through my chest. “You’re a menace.”
“Maybe.” His fingers brush the hem of my shirt, feather-light. Not pulling. Just inviting. “But you’re safe in my arms. And knowing you’re here is the only thing letting me close my eyes.”
The world outside fades to a distant ache.
The fear.
The noise.
All of it can wait.
I slip onto the edge of the bed beside him, letting his arm settle around me. His breathing steadies almost immediately, warm against my neck.
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, the tightness in my chest finally loosens. I close my eyes, letting that sound wash over me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, peace isn’t something fragile or temporary.
It feels real.
And it’s ours.