Chapter 13-Benji
She thinks I’m backing away.
I see it in her eyes before she turns.
In the way her shoulders go tight.
The way her voice goes careful. Controlled.
When she’s telling me any consequences are hers to face alone—trying to give me a way out—I swear it feels like a sucker punch right to my nut sack.
But I see her. Really see her.
Esme’s just bracing for impact all over again.
She thinks this—us—was a mistake.
She’s wrong.
So fucking wrong it almost makes me laugh.
But I don’t.
Because if I open my mouth right now—if I say what’s sitting heavy on my tongue—I won’t be able to take it back.
I want to pound my chest like a beast and roar. Toss her over my shoulder and fuck her till she’s too weak to leave my bed—ever.
Because this? This isn’t a mistake.
This isn’t some trip down memory lane.
This isn’t just sex.
This is inevitable.
This is fucking kismet.
This is the one thing in my life I know, down to the marrow in my bones, is real.
You’re mine, Esme.
The words echo in my head like a promise. Like a warning.
And I’m not letting you go.
Not again.
Not now that I know the truth.
Because pregnant or not—and fuck, that thought hits me again, hard and electric.
Pregnant.
A baby.
The possibility that we created a life right now fills me with such goddamn hope I almost cry again.
We always wanted kids. Talked about it a lot in those few months we were together.
This woman is so fucking mine.
“Fuck, I still want it all with you,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair as I step out into the cool night air.
My body reacts instantly, heat pooling low, something dark and possessive curling tight in my gut.
Because that idea?
That future?
Her carrying my kid?
Christ.
I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
But I force myself to stop.
To breathe.
Because this—this is where I fucked it up last time.
Jumping. Assuming. Acting without thinking it through.
Not this time.
Not with her.
“I’m doing this right,” I tell myself, low and firm.
Even if it kills me.
I pace once across the gravel, boots crunching underfoot, the neon motel sign buzzing overhead like it’s got something to say about my life choices.
I ignore it.
Focus.
Because this isn’t just about what I want.
This is about what she deserves.
And Esme?
She deserves more than a night in a cheap motel and a half-assed apology.
She deserves the truth.
All of it.
And I’ve got it now.
My phone burns in my pocket like it knows what I’m thinking.
Micah’s message.
The one that came through hours ago while she was sleeping next to me like she belonged there.
Like she never left.
I pull it out again, even though I’ve already read it.
Twice.
Three times.
Doesn’t matter.
It still hits the same.
Paul.
That fucking piece of shit.
Not just a liar.
Not just a manipulator.
A stalker.
A sick fuck coveting what wasn’t his.
Twisted.
Every message, every detail Micah dug up paints a picture I don’t want to see—but can’t ignore.
Paul had some serious fucking issues.
He’d been watching Esme.
Tracking my wife.
Fixated.
Even back then.
Even when I trusted him with everything.
With her.
My stomach turns.
“My wife,” I mutter, the words coming out rough, possessive, undeniable.
Because that’s what she is.
Whether or not it’s legal.
Or technical.
In my heart, she is my wife.
And if I have anything to say about it?
She will remain that way in law, under God, and in every other damn way there is, too.
“She never made those videos,” I say, more to the night than anything else.
The truth lands heavy.
Final.
She told me.
So many fucking times.
And I didn’t believe her.
Because I didn’t think I deserved her.
That’s the part that sticks.
That’s the part that pisses me off the most.
Not just Paul’s lies.
Not just his betrayal.
Mine.
Because I let it happen.
Let doubt creep in.
Let my own fucked-up baggage twist something good into something rotten.
Bastard son of Ace Gunner.
Just another no account fuck up.
The words echo like a curse.
I’ve heard them my whole life.
Felt them.
Lived them.
And somewhere along the way, I started believing them.
Started thinking I wasn’t good enough.
Not for her.
Not for something real.
So when Paul handed me that lie—wrapped up in something that looked like truth—I took it.
Didn’t question it hard enough.
Didn’t fight for her the way I should have.
“You should’ve known better,” I growl, jaw clenching.
Because I did.
Deep down?
I knew.
But it was easier to believe she left me—than to believe I was the one who lost her.
I exhale slow.
Long.
Trying to steady the storm inside me.
“I’m fixing it,” I say quietly.
Because that’s what this is now.
Not damage control.
Not regret.
Fixing it.
Making it right.
For her.
For us.
I look back toward the motel room.
Toward the door she’s behind.
Sleeping, if I had to guess.
Exhausted.
Still here.
That thought alone does something to me.
Because she stayed.
After everything.
After what I said.
After what I believed.
She still came back.
Still let me touch her.
Still let me in.
That’s not nothing.
That’s everything.
I’m going to earn her.
That’s it. Decision made.
I’m not asking.
Not hoping.
Earning.
Every second.
Every day.
Until she doesn’t look at me like she’s waiting for me to leave again.
Until she trusts me.
Until she chooses me.
And yeah—If I have to push a little?
Guide things in my direction?
Make sure she sticks around long enough to see what we could be?
Then I will.
Because I never said I was a good man.
Not like that.
Not clean.
Not easy.
But I am her man.
The only one for her.
Whether she realizes it yet or not.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she does.
My gaze hardens as I look out across the empty stretch of road.
Because before any of that?
Before I can build something new with her?
There’s one more thing I need to handle.
One more ghost to put down.
One more man who’s had too much control over my life.
My old man.
Ace Gunner.
The root of half the shit I’ve been carrying since I was a kid.
The man who made me believe I wasn’t enough.
The man who still thinks he can reach into my life and take what he wants.
Not anymore.
I roll my shoulders, tension settling into something sharper.
Colder.
Focused.
Alex steps out of the truck and stretches, “Morning, boss.”
“You ready to haul ass today?” I ask him.
“Sure thing.”
“Good. First stop,” I say, voice low and certain, “is Ace Gunner.”
Because if I’m going to face one devil in my life—might as well face them all.
And this time?
I’m not walking away.
Not from him.
Not from the truth.
And sure as hell not from her.