Chapter 16 Wren
WREN
The sight of River tied to a chair stops my heart. Digital problems I can fix, but physical ones I can’t.
This is his specialty, not mine.
Brute force. Annihilation. Physical rescue.
“Help me,” he croaks, as I take in his injuries.
One eye is just a swollen mess of weeping blood with a violent scar through it. There’s no way it’s recoverable. The other opens no wider than a slit.
And those are the least of his injuries.
He drops his head, and his shoulders sag and jerk with sobs.
“River,” I say, but the words won’t come out.
“River,” I try again. I can’t force any sound through my voice box.
I can’t reassure him or cry for help or make a phone call.
I try to call 911, but they keep saying they can’t hear me when I speak.
I have no voice. None at all.
I run across the black and oily floor of the warehouse, but as I do, I realize he isn’t tied to the chair, he’s chained to it.
Skin hangs from his ankles. “Oh, baby,” I try to say with tears streaming down my face. “What did they do to you?”
“Wren?” he says.
Yes. It’s me. I’m here. I’m going to help you.
But again. The words are trapped behind my voice box.
My throat is closing in, like I’m choking on my own words. Suffocating under the pressure to release them.
Then, a bullet whizzes past me, and River stops moving completely. A single bullet shot to the temple as blood drips down onto his—
“No,” I shout and sit up in bed with a gasp.
A dream.
My body is wet with sweat, and I grasp around the edge of the side table to find the cable that runs from the lamp with the light switch on it. When I finally find it, I see the sheets are a mess. Like I’ve been kicking around for a while.
In the cool night air of the ranch house, my skin chills, and I throw back the covers.
Trying to sleep while Catfish is out was a bad idea. Instead, I pad into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Then, I return to the bedroom, strip out of my damp pajamas, and reach for my phone to check where he’s at, if everything is okay.
“God damn it,” I mutter when I realize my phone is dead. I trace the power cord and realize it’s not plugged into the socket. Such a rookie mistake. I switch it on and leave my cell to charge on the nightstand.
Steam swirls in the air by the time I hit the bathroom again. My reflection in the mirror shows my complexion is ashy, my cheeks flushed. It’s an odd combination. Dark and haunted circles decorate beneath my eyes.
It takes a moment to unbraid my hair and let it fall loose around my shoulders. The green will start to fade soon, and I make a mental note to ask Catfish if I can find some box dye in town before it fades too much.
When I finally step beneath the water, I let it warm my bones. I don’t wash anything, I don’t turn, I just let it pound on my head. Hot and relentless.
The dream shook me. Seeing him so hurt left me with a feeling of helplessness. In the moment, I was voiceless and couldn’t even reassure him of my presence.
Even beneath the water, my eyes sting with tears. I tilt my head back, eyes closed, trying to drown out the paranoia that it was a premonition.
But I’ve long since learned that inaction in any kind of life crisis leads to a deepening despair or even depression. So, I do what I do best. I recommit to my work. I’ll shower. I’ll work.
I reach for the shampoo and lather my hair as I think about angles I haven’t tried. I plan a call with Calista to tell her what I’ve learned about the connection to the warehouse.
Rinsing my hair takes a while because there’s so much of it and it’s so thick.
Conditioning it takes even longer. I apply lots to it and let it sink in while I wash the rest of me. Once I’m washed, I work a thick comb through it to ensure I’m rid of knots.
Then, I hear it.
The slam of the front door.
My heart jerks, and I freeze, every nerve on alert.
Boots thud on wood and then comes a reassuring cry. “Wren!”
Catfish’s voice instantly eases me. And I try not to panic like last time, priding myself on breathing through it, rather than dressing or hiding in a hurry.
I’m about to rinse off my conditioner when the bathroom door pushes open, and Catfish walks in.
He’s still wearing all his clothes. The limited snow on his boots creates a puddle of water on the floor.
Dirt streaks his face, and there’s blood on one of his hands, like the evening didn’t go smoothly.
But what really tips me off are the fear and desperation in his eyes when the door opens, and the utter relief that fills them when he sees me.
He’s wide-eyed and wrecked.
He stands in the doorway like he doesn’t know how he got there. Like his only mission was to find me.
“You’re okay,” he rasps. Those two words are said in a tone like he doesn’t believe it.
He grabs his phone and says four words, “Wren’s alive and fine,” and then hangs up. As if the world is finally too much, he tosses his phone into the sink and then rests his fists on the counter. His shoulders hunch but rise and fall with his breath.
Steam swirls around, but he makes no effort to take off his clothes, and maybe I’m misreading things, but it’s as if he’s run out of the will to do one thing more.
And I can barely process why he might have need to call someone to tell them I’m alive, but I’m guessing I was at risk tonight and didn’t know it.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He was here. I had him, but he managed to get away.”
My heart thuds loudly in my ears. “How close?”
“Minutes. They almost got to you, Wren. And I failed to stop him. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Strip,” I instruct, forgetting about rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, for now. I don’t know why it feels like the right thing to say to him in this moment.
“What?” Catfish asks.
“You heard me. Strip for me, River, and get in here.”
Without another word of argument, Catfish does as I say. Clothes get thrown out the door. His thick jacket, hoodie, and Henley. The boots follow. And the belt leaves a mark in the cupboard door when he rips it from the waistband of his denim and accidentally smashes it into the wood.
A kind of darkness has entered the room with him, and my body rouses at the thought of where it could lead.
When he’s finally naked, he walks into the shower like he’s hungry for me. I’m used to the switch, the one between the harmless Catfish and the version he becomes when he’s pushed. Around me, he’s usually the former, but right now, he is most definitely the latter.
I tug him under the water, and he wraps his arms tightly around me as it splashes over us. The sound is thunderous as it pounds on the glass and walls. I press my forehead to his chest, but as I do, I see the water by our feet has turned red.
“Oh God, River, honey, you’re hurt.”
“Hit my head. I’m fine.” But he doesn’t let go of me, and the tension isn’t leaving his body. I want to hold him, reassure him he’s safe. Treat him gently.
But something tells me that isn’t what he needs from me right now.
So, I do the only other thing I can think of. I shove him. Hard, against the cold tile.
His eyes widen as I stand in front of him and place my hand over his chest. His heart pounds like a war drum.
“You found him in time, River.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Barely.”
“But you did.” I place two fingers beneath his chin and force him to look at me. “Barely is enough. Barely means both of us are right here. Breathing, safe, and alive.”
His fists open and close by his sides, so unable to settle. And I know that feeling well. When the adrenaline is racing so fast and hard, but you don’t have anywhere to put it. When you feel so out of yourself that you’re screaming inside, but the rest of the world doesn’t see it.
I step into him, bare skin to skin. “You need to come back for me,” I say. “You weren’t too late. I’m here.”
His breath shakes. “I almost let something happen to you.”
“But you didn’t.”
I kiss him.
It isn’t gentle or welcoming. It’s grounding and reaffirming and utterly real.
It’s my way of reassuring him that I’m here, so is he, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do.
He kisses me back like he needs my oxygen to breathe, and it’s the headiest of feelings to have so much power over a man like this. I grip his hips, holding him back against the wall, even though we both know he could get free in a heartbeat.
But he doesn’t.
I pull back just enough to whisper, “Do you want this?”
His dark eyes meet mine. “Yes.”
“We should talk boundaries,” I offer, suddenly coming to my senses.
“I want all of it, Wren. Whatever it is. All of it. Just do it.”
I slide my hands to his cock, gripping it firmly, and begin to work it between us. Pressed up against each other like we are, there’s a heady kind of thrill that comes from the action.
It’s River’s cock, and yet, it feels a lot like what working myself would feel like. It’s affirming and intimate.
He drops his forehead to my shoulder, and I feel his gasp for air as I squeeze harder.
“Wren,” he mutters, his lips moving against my skin.
My clit has a heartbeat of its own as I work him over. But this is about River.
Easing him.
He’s open to me.
Trusts me.
I’m not sure I deserve this kind of happy. To be liked…maybe someday even loved…by a man like this.
“I was scared they got to you,” he says on a shudder as I squeeze my hand right to the base of his cock. He thrusts his hips to meet me.
“You’re allowed to be afraid. It doesn’t make you weak.”
River raises his head and cups my cheek, and I lean into his palm. “I didn’t know how much I needed to touch you until I almost couldn’t.”
I reach for the back of his neck and tug his lips to mine as his hands roam my body. I let him touch his fill until I drop to my knees in front of him.
Sucking cock is something I’m a fan of. There’s something deeply satisfying about the weight of it on my tongue, the way my mouth can undo someone one slow inch at a time. It’s about being trusted with the most vulnerable part and truth of a person.
When I open my mouth with reverence, I look up and see overwhelming need in River’s strained features. When I take him inside, his hiss is louder than the patter of water on the shower floor.
His head flops back against the tiled wall, and his hand fists in my hair.
I drag my tongue along the vein on the underside, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his body jolts at the tiny contact.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
I take him deep, letting myself feel the stretch, letting my jaw relax. His cock is warm and heavy in my mouth.
“Suck it hard, Wren,” he says gruffly.
And I let him give me direction. Because I want this to be exactly what he wants.
What he needs in this moment.
When he hits the back of my throat, I splutter. But I hollow out my cheeks and suck hard as I withdraw.
River’s hips flinch at the sensation. But the salty tang of precum fills my mouth, and there’s something edifying in knowing that I can turn him on this way.
I want all of it, Wren. Whatever it is. All of it. Just do it.
It feels risky and dangerous to be given such freedom. But more importantly, his trust in me to not hurt him fills me up.
I dip my fingers between my legs, feeling the wetness there, and I scoop some of the slick. And as I tug him deeper and faster into my mouth, I reach behind his balls, teasing my fingertips over his hole and back again with slow, deliberate touches.
“God, yes.” His cry ricochets around the bathroom.
I try to relax my throat, but it doesn’t happen, and tears track down my cheeks as I gag messily.
“Look. At…me,” Catfish grunts.
And I do as he says, just as I nudge the tip of my finger into his asshole.
The intensity in his eyes, the strain that lines the corners of them, causes my heart to flip. It’s impossible for me to come without penetration or friction, but I swear my body is as close as it can get.
I grip his shaft to stop myself from choking, but suck him hard, moving my mouth and hand together.
Catfish inhales deeply as he watches me, his mouth ever so slightly open.
I let go of his cock for a moment and run my short nails over his taut abs, enjoying the way his body flinches.
“Ah, fuck, Wren,” he says. “The things you’re doing to me.”
Hard to ask what those things are with a mouthful of his cock, but I want to know. He shifts his hand to the back of my head and takes over thrusting into me, holding me in place.
I shake with the power of his need.
Never has a sexual act felt like this.
It’s new.
Raw.
Uninhibited.
I’ve never felt so seen, so understood, so needed.
And when he comes, it’s a blessing for us both.