Chapter 55
Brooke
Ipace the length of the house until my calves burn and my pulse thuds behind my eyes.
Krueger paces with me, his nails clicking against the concrete in an uneven rhythm, stopping when I stop and starting again the second I move.
Every few steps, he glances up at me like he is waiting for orders I don't have.
The lock turns.
Krueger freezes first. His head snaps toward the door, ears perked, whole body tensing like a loaded spring.
The door opens and Beau steps through. Seth follows a second later, slower, one hand braced against the wall for balance. There is dried blood along his hairline and down his neck.
My chest drops and lights up at the same time.
“What the fuck?” My eyes drag over the blood on his face. “What the actual fuck happened to you?”
Seth tries to smirk. It looks wrong around the split in his lip. “Beau’s idea of foreplay.”
“Very fucking funny.” I turn to Beau, jabbing a finger at him. “You dragged him into whatever the hell that was and forgot to mention the part where someone almost cracked his skull open.”
Beau shuts the door behind them and looks down at me. Six foot five of calm, broad-shouldered bullshit, trying and failing to keep his face neutral. The muscle in his jaw twitches once.
“If I’d told you anything, you would’ve tried to come,” Beau folds his arms. “And you would’ve blown it before we got within ten feet of Mercer.”
“That’s not the point,” I glare at him. “The point is you let me sit here with nothing. No details. No warning. You let me wonder if both of you were dead while you pulled whatever stunt you pulled.”
Seth sinks onto the couch with a rough exhale, fingers pressing against the side of his head. He watches us with tired eyes and way too much patience.
“You tell him, baby,” Seth mutters.
I whip my head toward him. “Don’t fucking start. I didn’t know there was a plan. I didn’t know you were baiting anyone. I just watched you walk out of this house while we’re on a nationwide fucking manhunt.”
Seth lifts an icepack to his temple. “I’m aware. I got the memo.”
Krueger trots over to Seth, sniffs his jeans, then his arm, then his face, like he's checking for missing pieces. Seth scratches behind his ear, and the dog leans into it with a happy grunt.
I turn back to Beau.
“You didn’t think for one second that maybe I deserved to know what the fuck was going on?” I stare between them. “You had me sitting here counting the many ways things could go wrong. I didn’t even know what I was waiting for. I just knew you both were gone.”
Beau draws in a slow breath and keeps his eyes on mine. He looks like he wants to smile and knows better.
“Seth’s fine. He’s been injured worse than this. My doctor checked him already. No fracture. Just a concussion risk and a fucked-up lip.”
Seth flips him off again without looking.
Beau ignores the gesture.
“I almost got a concussion,” Seth mutters. “For a plan I wasn’t fully briefed on.”
“If I’d let anyone in on the full play, Mercer would’ve known,” Beau leans against the counter.
“He watches people for a living. He would’ve read it on Seth the second he saw him.
He would’ve put a bullet in his head before I could move.
This was the only way to get close without getting him killed. ”
I stare at him, breathing hard.
“You still could’ve told me something. Not the whole thing. Just enough that I wasn’t sitting here in the dark like a fucking idiot.”
“I told you enough to keep you here,” Beau says. “I didn’t tell you enough to get you killed.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“You’re an asshole, Beau!”
“I know that,” Beau glances toward Seth before looking back at me. “But if it wasn’t for me you two lovebirds would have been in body bags. Mercer’s dead, everyone’s safe now.”
The words land, but I refuse to let them soften anything yet.
I shift my glare back to Seth.
“And you. You walked out with him and didn’t tell me what it was. You didn’t tell me you were stepping into something dangerous.”
Seth gives an unhelpful half smile.
“I had questions. Then Mercer’s guy hit me in the face and the conversation ended.”
Beau snorts once.
“For the record, I didn’t send you into a trap. I had the situation completely in control.”
I exhale slowly, shoulders finally dropping a fraction.
“Don’t ever leave me sitting here like that again.”
The fear still burns. It still sits under my ribs. The rest of it shifts.
Relief can sit in the corner for now, because I am not finished with this conversation.
I walk over to the couch where Seth sits with the ice pack pressed against his temple.
“I’m not done being mad.”
“That’s good then.” Seth looks up at me. “It means you still love me.”
My jaw clenches. I hold his stare for another beat, then let out a tight breath.
“I’m going to shower. I’ve been sweating my ass off, having panic attacks, thanks to you two geniuses.”
Seth’s mouth curls into a crooked smirk. He shifts on the couch and tries to lean in for a kiss, the ice pack sliding away from his temple. I turn my head just enough that he catches my cheek instead of my mouth.
“Nice try,” I say, standing up.
I head for the stairs before either of them can respond. Krueger follows me a few steps, then stops and pads back to Seth like he can't decide who needs supervision more.
My legs feel heavy as I climb, every muscle aware of how long I have been pacing and waiting and imagining worst case scenarios. The second floor hallway feels too quiet.
Two years ago, I was a regular college student. I worried about finals, rent, and whether I could keep pretending I was fine after my parents died. My biggest fear was wasting my life, not losing it in a shootout or bleeding out on some concrete floor with my name on a warrant.
Now I am a wanted woman. The police have my face on every screen. A psycho murder cult wants me alive long enough to torture me. Every safe house feels temporary. Every quiet moment feels like a countdown to impending doom.
Dr. Feldman would have a field day with this. She would probably write a paper about me if she could. Layers of unresolved grief, chronic trauma, attachment issues, moral injury, all wrapped in felony charges and a body count that keeps growing.
I’m going to need therapy until I die. And that is only if I actually live long enough to sit on some couch again and talk about how fucked up I am.
The water hits my shoulders hard and hot, loud enough to drown out everything else for a minute.
I stand there, letting it run down my spine, over my abdomen, between my thighs, trying to wash the adrenaline out of my skin. My palms press flat against the tile. My forehead rests against the wall. Steam fills the small space until my reflection blurs in the glass.
My chest still feels tight. My thoughts still run in circles. Every worst case scenario replays on a loop behind my closed eyes. Seth on concrete. Seth bleeding. Seth not coming back.
I drag the conditioner through my hair with shaking fingers and rinse it out too fast. I scrub at my body like friction can erase what today has done to my nervous system. My skin is already sensitive from stress and pacing and too much cortisol, but I keep going anyway.
I want peace. But I don't think peace is coming.
This is the life I signed up for. I chose Seth knowing exactly what he is capable of, knowing what follows him, knowing that loving him means living inside danger. I accept all of it. I accept him with blood on his hands and ghosts in his head.
I guess being on the run comes with him.
That doesn't mean I have to like it.
I still have every right to be pissed.
I shut the water off and stand there dripping for a second, listening to the quiet rush back into the house. My heartbeat finally slows enough that I can breathe without it stuttering.
I wrap a towel around myself and wipe the fog from the mirror with my forearm.
My eyes look tired.
I make my way down the hall barefoot, damp hair clinging to my back, towel tucked tight around my chest. The bedroom door is cracked open. “N.h.i.e.” is playing softly in our room.
Seth is already inside.
He is laid back on the bed, shoulders pressed into the mattress like he owns the space, hips positioned right at the edge.
His feet are planted on the floor, knees spread just enough to keep himself open, exposed.
His sweats hang low on his hips, barely there, the fabric pushed down far enough to show the full length of him.
One hand rests behind his head, relaxed, almost casual. The other is wrapped around his dick, working himself with slow, unhurried strokes like he has all the time in the world.
He looks up when I step in. His mouth tilts.
“Hey.”
My pulse jumps straight into my throat.
He is still bruised. There is dried blood along his hairline, streaked down toward his temple, catching in the edges of his stubble. His lip is split, slightly swollen. The ice pack sits abandoned on the nightstand, already forgotten.
He doesn't stop touching himself.
My towel suddenly feels too heavy. And my pussy feels too wet despite the anger sitting in my chest.
“What are you doing?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
His eyes drag over me, slow and thorough, taking in every inch of damp skin. “Trying to take my mind off the concussion. Doctor’s orders.”
I snort despite myself.
“That is not what he said.”
He gives one slow pump of his hand, deliberate enough that I can see the way his grip tightens, the way his cock jumps slightly in response. “He said to avoid stress.”
My gaze drops before I can stop it.
He is so thick and hard. The head flushed darker, already slick, catching the low light every time his hand moves. My stomach tightens as I watch him, heat pooling low and fast, my body reacting before I can even pretend I'm still just angry.
My thighs press together for half a second before I stop myself.
I should still be pissed. I am still pissed.
But the way he looks right now, bruised, blood still on him, sitting there like he knows exactly what he does to me, it makes my pulse spike harder.
My gaze drops again, slower this time. I track the movement of his hand, the steady drag of his grip, the way his body responds to it. His stomach tightens, his hips pushing up just enough to chase the friction.
I can feel it between my thighs, already slick, already aching for him. My body gives in before my brain can catch up, pulling me toward him like a magnet, like it doesn’t care about anything except the way he feels inside me.
I want him.
I want him inside me, deep enough to shut everything else out. I want to feel him stretch me open, make me forget the fear, the waiting, the way my chest locked up when I thought he wasn’t coming back.
Focus, Brooke. Don't let him off that easily. Don't fall for his cock sorcery.
“I almost lost you today.”
His expression softens immediately.
“Baby—”
“And you’re in here jerking off.”
He lifts his shoulders in a half shrug. “Multitasking.”
I step closer toward him.
Seth’s breathing has gone heavier now, slower, his chest rising deeper with each inhale. His hand keeps moving, like he is testing how long he can hold himself back.
“Don’t ever make me imagine life without you again,” I say.
His jaw flexes.
“I won’t.”
I stop between his knees and let my towel fall to the floor. The fabric drops at my feet, leaving nothing between us.
He looks up at me, eyes dark and blown wide, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he keeps stroking himself, slower now, like he is trying not to lose control too fast.
“You still mad at me?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re standing in front of me naked.”
“Yeah.”
He lets out a quiet breath as he smirks. “That feels like progress.”
I reach down and wrap my hand over his, stopping his movement.
His breath catches.
“You don’t get to scare the shit out of me and then act surprised when you know I need you,” I murmur.
His throat works.
“Fair.”
I slide his hand away and replace it with mine, closing my fingers around him, feeling the heat, the weight, the way his body reacts instantly to my touch.
His head tips back immediately, eyes closing for half a second like his body has been waiting for that exact contact.
“And Beau,” I add. “I’m still going to murder him later.”
Seth groans softly. “He already knows.”
I stroke him slow and firm, watching his stomach tighten under my hand, the muscles in his abdomen pulling with each movement.
“You’re lucky I love you,” I tell him.
His eyes open again, locked on mine.
“I know. That’s the only reason I’m still breathing.”
My grip tightens.
He hisses quietly and lifts his hips a fraction closer to me, chasing the pressure, both of us still riding the edge of everything that almost went wrong today.
“Still mad?”
“Yes.”
A low sound rumbles out of his chest. His thumb brushes over the head of his cock, spreading the pre-cum that has already gathered there. Then he swipes it up with his thumb and lifts his hand toward my mouth.
He presses his thumb to my lips, and I suck it clean, tasting him while his eyes stay locked on mine. His throat works as he watches me, something darker settling in his expression.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Show me how mad you are.”