Chapter 17 Coco #2
My body responds before my thoughts catch up, a low awareness humming under my skin that blurs the line between waking and the memory of last night.
He shifts behind me, a low sound leaving his throat as his arm tightens and his beard brushes against my back. Still asleep, he draws me back into him, his forearm sliding from my waist to across my stomach, pulling me flush against his chest.
The hold is instinctive.
I stay still for a beat, listening to his breathing even out again.
Then I lift my hand and trace a finger along the ink on his forearm, following the lines slowly, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the markings.
I shift within his hold, turning my body slightly, and then my head, until his face comes into view. He doesn’t move. His breathing stays deep and even, steady enough that I let myself keep exploring without fear of waking him.
His expression is relaxed, stripped of the vigilance and restraint he wears like armor when he is awake. Seeing him like this makes him human in a way I am not prepared to handle.
Thick lashes rest against his cheeks, unfairly long, softening the sharp planes of his features. It gives him an almost deceptive calm, like someone used to waiting.
I know better than to confuse this for gentleness. his man is controlled, deliberate, and built for pressure.
His lips are slightly parted. I fight the urge to kiss him, to test the weight and warmth of his mouth against mine.
Everything about him pulls at me. The hard line of his jaw. The quiet strength in the way he holds me, even in sleep. The unspoken familiarity in the placement of his hand.
My body recognizes it as safety before my mind can intervene, and that realization unsettles me more than fear ever did.
He took me in the night, held me against my will. Worse than that, he crossed my father. That makes him dangerous. Laurent made that very clear after I came home.
Nothing about waking up like this changes that truth.
My father would never approve of this, of me with him. Of me choosing him, this quiet intimacy that feels earned in ways I cannot justify. By every measure I was raised with, I should hate Ridge Stone.
I don’t.
Anger tightens in my chest, sharp and reflexive. I press my lips together, forcing it down, like if I give it air it will tear through something I am not ready to look at yet.
It’s a betrayal, not of my father alone, but of the version of myself I thought I understood. I press my lips together, holding the emotion in place. This is not confusion. This is clarity I don’t want.
The lines between us are blurred beyond recognition. The man who tied me to a bed and the man whose arm holds me now exist in the same body, and my mind keeps trying to separate them even as my body refuses to cooperate.
I press my forehead briefly to his shoulder, careful not to wake him, and breathe him in. His scent is familiar now. Too familiar. It settles low in my chest and belly, stirring awareness I should not indulge.
Morning will come, and with it, reality, whether I am ready or not.
Ridge shifts, and his hazel eyes open, heavy with sleep, locking on me immediately.
“Morning,” he says, his voice low and rough. The vibration carries through his chest and into my arm.
“Morning,” I whisper.
His arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer, still half-asleep. I turn within the circle of it, ending up face to face, my head settling against his bicep.
Up close, the ink on his chest draws my attention now, the lines disappearing down his arm in a deliberate swirl. I trace the edge of it lightly with my fingers.
“What’s this one mean?”
He glances at my hand, then back to my face.
“That one’s for my brothers. We got it before Reeves left for his tour in the Middle East.”
Something in my chest loosens at that. This isn’t decoration or bravado. It’s a marker. Something chosen and carried.
“Reeves,” I say. “One of the elusive Stone brothers?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. Barely. “Middle one. Military. Always looking for a fight, preferably with someone bigger than him.”
I smile despite myself and trace the line again, slower now. The ink is warm beneath my thumb, solid in a way that feels deliberate.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Did it hurt?”
“The tattoo?” A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Not as much as it looks.”
I nod, absorbing that. His body is marked everywhere, layers of ink across arms, chest, and back. None of it seems decorative, more like earned.
“No,” I say after a moment, meeting his gaze. “I meant losing your dad.”
The shift in him is subtle but immediate. His mouth firms. He inhales slowly, chest rising beneath my hand.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he says. “There hasn’t been time to sit with it, though. That might be for the best.”
I don’t push. Silence holds without strain.
He shifts onto one elbow. His hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair from my face. The touch is light, restrained, as if he is aware of how much it could mean if he lets it linger.
“What about you?” he asks. “Any ink?”
I shake my head. “My father would lose his mind.”
“You care what he thinks?”
“Enough to avoid the fight.”
“Sounds isolating.”
“It is,” I admit. “I get the sense you understand that.”
He nods once. “More than I want to.”
Something tightens between us. Recognition, not comfort.
My fingers drift over another tattoo, this one darker, more intricate, spreading across the right side of his chest. “And this one?”
“Rhodes,” he says. “When he turned eighteen, he wanted something permanent. So we all did it with him.”
“You’re close to your brothers.”
“Have to be. Family is what lasts.”
I look away, my hand still resting against his chest. My own family presses in, complicated and heavy.
“You’re lucky,” I say. “That bond didn’t happen for me. I just got the expectations and responsibilities I didn’t ask for.”
His gaze sharpens. “Why?”
“My mom died when I was young,” I say, steady despite the ache. “Most of my memories of her are blurred. She was the one who made everything connected. When she was gone, that warmth went with her.”
“What about your father? Your brothers?”
“I love them,” I say. “But my father commands more than he comforts. My brothers and I exist near each other, not with each other.”
His hand covers mine, warm and grounding. “My mom died when I was a teenager,” he says. “She was the center of everything. After she was gone, it was survival. Our youngest brother, Rhodes, got the least of the softness. That’s why I watch him the closest.”
“They’re fortunate to have you,” I say.
“That’s how we made it through,” he replies. “We all pitched in.”
The weight of it lingers. He is not offering solace, but he is, without realizing it. We are more alike even than I realized.
“I admire that,” I say quietly. “The way you protect what’s yours.”
His grip tightens slightly. He does not answer.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath it. I want this moment to stretch, even as I know it cannot.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I have to leave soon,” I say. “My father is out early, but I can’t push it. If I’m not back before he notices, the fallout won’t stop with me.”
His expression hardens. He shifts back just enough to create space, and the absence of his body is immediate.
“You’re right,” he says.
“I don’t want to go,” I admit. “But maybe I can talk to him. Maybe I can make him see reason.”
“Coco.” His voice cuts cleanly through the thought. “That’s not going to happen.”
He gestures between us. “This cannot be anything.”
The words land hard. I shake my head. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.” His gaze remains steady, distant. “What we want doesn’t change what this costs. This,” he gestures with his hand between us. “This isn’t possible, Coco.”
The silence presses in, heavy and suffocating. I don’t argue.
Understanding does not lessen the ache.
It only sharpens it.