Chapter 31 Jessica #2
His thumbs brush across my cheekbones, wiping away tears.
"When I tell you that I wake up every morning grateful you're here. That I fall asleep every night terrified you'll disappear. That I've spent years wanting you and three weeks barely surviving how much I love you."
My knees buckle. He catches me, one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against his chest.
"You're making things better." His voice rumbles against my ear. "You're making us whole. Don't run this time."
I clutch fistfuls of his t-shirt and hold on.
"I'm scared." The admission scrapes my throat raw. "I'm so scared, Sergio. Of losing you. Of ruining you. Of being the reason your family falls apart."
"We won't fall apart." He presses his lips to my hair. "We've survived worse. And we didn't have you then."
"I'm a mess."
"You're our mess." His arm tightens around my waist. "That's how pack works. Your problems become our problems. Your enemies become our enemies. Your triumphs become our triumphs."
I pull back to look at him. His grey eyes are fierce. Certain. No hesitation. No doubt.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I know what I want." His hand slides up my spine, leaving fire in its wake. "I've known for years. Nothing that's happened in the last three weeks has changed that. Nothing that happens tomorrow will change it either."
"The story might get worse."
"Probably will."
"The Morrisons have money and lawyers and connections."
"We have each other."
"That's not enough."
"It's everything." He cradles the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "You're everything. How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?"
I stare up at him. This man who speaks in commands. Who wastes nothing, especially not words. Who's looking at me like I'm precious instead of broken.
"Once more," I whisper. "Say it once more."
"You're everything." He lowers his head until his forehead rests against mine. "You're everything, and I'm keeping you."
"That sounds vaguely possessive."
"Good." His lips brush mine, barely a touch, a question more than a kiss. "Get used to it."
I answer by closing the distance.
The kiss starts soft. Gentle. His mouth warm and firm against mine, tasting like mint.
But softness isn't what either of us needs right now, and within seconds it shifts.
His tongue pushes past my lips, claiming and demanding, and I open for him with a desperate sound.
His hand fists in my hair, angling my head so he can kiss me deeper, harder, like he's trying to crawl inside me.
My nails rake down his back, leaving trails that make him hiss against my mouth, and when his other hand grips my thigh, pulling my leg up around his hip, I forget how to breathe.
His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, demanding. I moan against him and feel his whole body shudder in response.
He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and he swallows my gasp, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
Good. I want bruises. I want marks. I want physical proof that this is real, that he's real, that I'm not dreaming in some padded cell while doctors discuss my "treatment plan."
"Sergio." His name tears out of me when he releases my mouth to kiss down my jaw, my neck, the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes my knees dissolve.
"Still want to leave?" He scrapes his teeth across my pulse point.
"No." The word comes out strangled.
"Still think you're not worth it?" He sucks hard enough to leave a mark.
"No."
"Still convinced you're making things worse?" His hand slides under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, and I arch into the contact like I'm touch-starved.
I am touch-starved. Three weeks of wanting and waiting and wondering, and now his hands are finally on me and I can't think straight.
"No." My fingers scrabble at his shoulders, pulling him closer. "No, I'm not, please, Sergio, I need..."
"I know what you need." He lifts his head and meets my eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the grey almost swallowed by black. "But not like this. Not when you're upset. Not when you might regret it tomorrow."
"I won't regret it."
"You might." He takes a breath, visibly steadying himself, and steps back. The cold rushes in to fill the space where his warmth used to be. "We need to talk first. All of us. About what this means. About how it works."
"I know how it works." I reach for him, and he catches my wrists, holding them gently but firmly.
"You know what you want right now. This second. In this room." His voice is strained, like the words are costing him something. "I need you to know you'll still want it tomorrow. And the day after. And every day for the rest of your life."
I stop struggling.
He's right. I hate that he's right. But this is Sergio, who never wastes words, who doesn't make decisions lightly, who's been waiting years because he wanted to do things properly.
"Okay." I let out a shaky breath. "Okay. We talk first."
Relief flickers across his face. He releases my wrists and takes my hands instead, threading our fingers together.
"Unpack your suitcase." He brings my knuckles to his lips. "Put your clothes back. Rebuild your nest. Steal more of our things if you need to."
"You don't mind?"
"I mind that you felt like you had to leave." He presses another kiss to my knuckles. "I don't mind anything that makes you feel like you belong here. Because you do. This is your home now. Whether you believe it yet or not."
Home.
The word settles into my chest, warm and heavy.
"I'm still scared," I admit.
"Fear is fine. Fear means you care." He tugs me toward the bed, toward the suitcase that needs unpacking, toward the nest that needs rebuilding. "Running is what we're eliminating."
"No more running?"
"No more running." He picks up the suitcase and sets it on the mattress. "Now. Which drawer does this go in?"
I look at the clothes spilling out of the bag. At the nest of blankets and hoodies waiting to be reassembled. At the man standing in my room, prepared to help me unpack like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Bottom drawer," I say. "And the shirts go in the closet. And that sweater needs to be folded differently or it gets weird creases."
"Show me."
I move to stand beside him and start sorting through the chaos. Our shoulders brush. Our hands touch when we reach for the same shirt. I breathe him in until my lungs ache with it.
"Sergio."
He pauses mid-fold.
"Thank you." I meet his eyes. "For not letting me run."
"Always." He leans down and kisses my forehead. "Now finish unpacking. Dinner's in an hour, and Carlos's making something that involves an alarming amount of garlic."
"Is that a warning?"
"It's a promise." He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "One hour. Kitchen. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You were late to your own wedding."
"That was fashionably absent. Different thing entirely."
He laughs. The sound fills the room, warm and unexpected, and I realize I've never heard him laugh before. Not really. Not like this.
I want to hear it again. Every day. For the rest of my life.
"One hour," he repeats, and disappears into the hallway.
I stare at the empty doorway for a long moment. Then I turn back to my suitcase and start putting my clothes away.
No more running.
I'm finally ready to stay.