Chapter 34
ELIJAH
The snow keeps falling outside our cabin window, relentless and silent. It's almost midnight when I open my eyes to darkness, my body still humming from earlier. Sam's back is to me now, curled away on the far side of the bed.
We fell asleep tangled together after sex, her body tucked against mine like she belonged there, but now there's this empty space between us. Cold sheets where warmth should be.
I stare at the gentle curve of her shoulder, watching it rise and fall with each breath, remembering how it felt under my hands just hours ago.
Fuck. I still can't believe Sam and I had sex.
But sex doesn't even begin to cover what happened between us. That word is too small, too ordinary for what we did.
It was like being struck by lightning and surviving, like finding religion in the depths of her eyes when she came apart beneath me. When I was inside her, her body became my sanctuary—the only church I've ever believed in. Every sound she made, every gasp and moan, felt like something sacred being whispered into existence.
And she was a virgin. Sam was a fucking virgin.
I've never wanted to be someone's first before. Never saw the appeal. Always seemed like too much pressure, too much responsibility. But with her—fuck, with Sam it felt like being handed something precious, something that can never be replaced or replicated.
The knowledge that I'm the only one who's ever been inside her, who's ever made her feel that way, who's ever watched her face transform in those moments of pure pleasure... it fills me with this hunger that scares the shit out of me. This possessiveness that doesn't even make sense.
I want to touch her again. Want to wake her up with my mouth between her thighs, want to hear her say my name like she did earlier—half plea, half prayer. But I'm not that much of an asshole. I know she's sore. I saw it in the little wince she tried to hide when we were cleaning up afterward, the careful way she moved when we crawled back into bed.
Maybe later, though. When we've both rested. Round two. Round three. As many rounds as she'll give me.
A wishful fucking thought.
My train of thought derails when I hear a small sound from Sam's side of the bed. A sniffle. I thought she was sleeping, but that doesn't sound like sleep. I shift carefully, not wanting to disturb her if I'm wrong, and notice her shoulders shaking slightly.
As I listen more intently, it hits me like a punch to the gut—she is crying. Quietly, trying to hide it, but definitely crying.
Shit. Has she been crying this whole time while I've been lying here thinking about getting my dick wet again? I'm such an idiot.
I'm about to ask if she's okay, but the words die in my throat as another memory surfaces. Right before we came apart together, right at that moment when everything was perfect and blinding and overwhelming, she'd whispered those three words against my neck.
I love you.
And I pretended not to hear her. Just kept moving inside her, kept kissing her, kept my mouth busy so I wouldn't have to respond. Because what the fuck was I supposed to say?
I squeeze my eyes shut now, guilt burning like acid in my chest. I'm a shitty person. The shittiest. She gave me everything tonight—her virginity, her trust, her whole heart—and I took it all without giving anything back.
It's not that I don't feel something for Sam. I do. That's the problem. I feel too much, and I don't know what to call it, don't know how to categorize it or contain it. I thought sleeping with her would finally get her out of my system, this obsession I've been fighting for so long.
But it's only made it worse. So much worse.
Now I know what it's like to have her completely, to be inside her, to watch her come undone—and I only want more. Want it with an intensity that terrifies me.
I also know that sleeping together would only cause her more pain in the end. We both knew that going in. But we did it anyway, like we couldn't help ourselves, like we were just leaves caught in the same wind, unable to change course.
My heart physically aches listening to her cry. Each muffled sob is another crack in whatever armor I thought I had left. I can't take it anymore. I reach across the space between us, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. She stiffens immediately, trying to pull away, but I just hold her tighter.
"You can keep crying if you want," I murmur into her hair, "but stay close to me while you do it."
She sniffles, her body still rigid in my arms. "You don't need to do this, Eli," she says, her voice hoarse from crying. "I'm already beyond grateful for everything you did for me today. You don't have to keep—"
"Shh." I stroke her arm, feeling goosebumps rise under my touch. "The day's not over yet. We still have a few more minutes to pretend we're lovers, don't we?"
The word "pretend" tastes bitter on my tongue. Because it doesn't feel like pretending anymore. It feels real. Too real.
Sam is quiet for a long moment. Then, in a small voice that nearly breaks me she says, "What if we fall asleep like this?"
"That's fine too," I tell her, my lips brushing her temple. "Couples usually fall asleep together like this."
What I don't say is that I just want to keep her close. That I'm not strong enough to let her go. That today has shown me a glimpse of something I never thought I wanted—something that feels dangerously like happiness. Like home.
She relaxes against me gradually, her body softening into mine, and I brush my lips against her hair. It smells like lavender and warm honey, and something uniquely Sam. Something I'm already addicted to.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and I feel her tears soaking into the arm I have tucked beneath her head.
"Don't be," I reply, because I'm the one who should be apologizing. I'm the one who's going to hurt her. I'm the one who can't figure out my own fucking feelings.
Or maybe I have figured them out, and I'm just too scared to admit it. Because if I'm going to give love a chance—and fuck, the word alone makes me want to run—I want to do it with her. Only her. Falling in love wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if it's with Sam.
I hug her tighter as she cries harder against my chest, rubbing soothing circles on her back. My eyes are getting heavier by the minute, the emotional toll of the day finally catching up with me.
Tomorrow, I decide, as sleep starts to claim me. Tomorrow when we wake up, I'll tell her my plan. I'll tell her we can forget about our deal—that stupid agreement that she'd stay out of my life. I'll tell her that I want her to stay.
Preferably for as long as forever.
I wake to golden morning light filtering through the curtains, and the first thought in my mind is Sam. Sam beneath me, Sam above me, Sam coming apart around me. How insatiable she was once she got past the initial discomfort. How she clutched at my shoulders like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.
How she looked at me like I was something worth loving.
Fuck, I'm hard again just thinking about it.
My dick apparently has no concept of appropriate morning-after etiquette. I wonder if we can go again before we head to the airport. I flutter my eyes open and check my wristwatch—six-thirty. Is it too early to wake her up? Probably. She needs rest after last night.
I can't help the mischievous smirk that slips onto my face. I'm an ass. She's definitely sore, and here I am thinking with my dick again. Maybe I should run her a warm bath instead, so when I wake her, she can soak in it and ease some of that soreness.
I've never been a gentle lover. Never done aftercare following a hookup because that only leads to complications, to expectations I don't want to meet.
But with Sam, I want to be that guy. I want to take care of her.
Christ, what has this woman done to me?
When I kissed Sam a month ago, it rewired everything in me. One touch of her lips and I was a man possessed, haunted by the ghost of her taste for weeks. I became a junkie, and Sam was my drug of choice.
And as if that torture wasn't enough—apparently I enjoy self-destruction— I had sex with her. No, that doesn't sound quite right.
What happened last night wasn't just sex. It wasn't some reckless, drunken mistake I could pretend didn't matter. It was slow. It was passionate. It was devastating in a way that felt almost holy.
It wasn't just physical—it was seismic.
It was deeper than anything I've ever experienced. Not just skin against skin, but nerve against nerve. Pulse against pulse. Like our breaths synced up and decided to rewrite the rules of gravity.
I've slept with women before. Plenty. But those nights blur together—faces, sounds, empty heat that fades by morning. This wasn't that.
This felt like drowning and breathing at the same time. Like someone reached inside my chest and wrapped their hand around something I didn't even know was exposed. It wasn't just passion.
It was connection. Raw. Unfiltered. Almost violent in how real it felt.
My chest actually flutters when the realization sinks in. I made love to her. Love. That poisonous four-letter word I've spent my whole life running from.
I wait for the disgust. The recoil. The self-loathing. The panic that usually follows when anything starts to feel real. But nothing comes.
Instead, something far more dangerous settles in my chest.
I want to do it again. I want to make love to Sam again... and again.
Not just for the way it felt physically, but for that impossible, bone-deep connection that hit me when her body arching beneath mine, her fingers digging crescents into my shoulders, her eyes locked on mine as if she could see straight through to whatever broken thing passes for my soul.
To trace the geography of her skin with reverent fingertips, to feel her pulse thunder against mine until I can't tell where I end and she begins. I need that again—that moment where everything lined up and locked in place like it was always meant to, and for once I didn't fight it.
The memory of last night makes my skin burn even now.
Fuck... if kissing Sam that first time was the gateway drug, then last night was the overdose.
I drag a hand down my face and let out a long breath, but there's this traitorous twitch at the corner of my mouth I can't quite suppress. Because the truth is, Samantha Westbrook has finally ruined me.
I don't think I can keep pretending I don't want her when every single cell in my body wants her... aches for her... reaches for her like she's the only thing that makes sense anymore.
It's not just desire. It's not just lust.
It's possession. It's surrender.
It's the sick, dizzying awareness that I'm not in control anymore. I don't even want to be.
So, yeah. I'm screwed.
I reach across the bed, seeking her warmth, but my hand meets only cold sheets. I frown, sitting up. The side next to me is empty.
"Sam?" I call out, my voice still rough with sleep.
No response.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, grabbing my pants from the floor and pulling them on. Maybe she's in the bathroom. I knock on the door, but there's no answer. I turn the handle—it's unlocked, and the room is empty.
A knot of unease tightens in my stomach. I check the private deck, thinking maybe she's out there looking at the snow-covered mountains. But there's no sign of her.
And that's when it hits me like a freight train at full speed—Sam is gone.
My eyes land on a folded piece of paper on the nightstand, my name written across it in her neat handwriting. My heart is suddenly hammering against my ribs as I pick it up with fingers that don't feel like mine anymore.
I unfold it slowly, almost afraid of what I'll find.
Eli,
When you wake up and read this, I'll already be gone.
I'm sorry I didn't wake you to say goodbye. I almost did. I stood there watching you sleep for what felt like hours, memorizing every line of your face, every rise and fall of your chest. But I knew if you opened your eyes and looked at me, I wouldn't have the strength to leave. And leaving is the only gift I have left to give you.
Thank you for yesterday.
It was everything I've ever dreamed a perfect day could be. Every moment felt like a treasure I was stealing—the snowball fight where you let me win, the way you held my hand while we talked about our imaginary little family and how wonderful it would be... And last night... last night was a dream I never want to wake from.
If there was even a tiny moment yesterday where you didn't regret being with me, that's more than enough for me to hold onto for the rest of my life.
And as promised... today is the end. Ten years is a long time to love someone who never asked for it. It's time I finally let you go.
So this is me keeping my word. No more texts. No more calls. No more "accidental" run-ins. No more chasing after you like a shadow you can't shake.
If we pass each other somewhere someday, I won't make it awkward. I'll smile like you're someone I used to know a lifetime ago. Because that's what we'll be to each other—ghosts of a memory that once felt important.
I hope one day you find someone who makes you as happy as you deserve to be. Someone who doesn't make you feel trapped or guilty or suffocated. Someone worthy of all the love you're capable of giving when you finally decide to give it.
And I hope, just maybe, when you think about yesterday in the quiet moments when you're alone, you don't regret it. Because I never will.
Goodbye, Elijah Deveraux.
—Sam
I can't breathe. It feels like someone is sitting on my chest, crushing my lungs.
I read the letter again, and then again, hoping the words will somehow change—that this is some fucked-up joke, that Sam is about to walk through the door with coffee and that sunbeam smile of hers that could warm even the coldest winter storm—just like it did to my cold, stubborn heart last night.
But the silence in the cabin is absolute. She's really gone.
I sink back onto the bed, the letter crumpled in my fist. There's a pain in my chest that I can't identify, sharp and unfamiliar.
Is this what heartbreak feels like? Is this what I've been so fucking afraid of all these years?
"Fuck!" I yell into the empty room, standing up and kicking the nightstand. A lamp crashes to the floor, the bulb shattering. I don't care. I want to break everything. I want to tear this whole place apart until it looks like I feel inside.
I grab my phone, scrolling frantically for Sam's number. I'll call her, tell her to come back, tell her—tell her what?
That I love her too? Do I?
I don't even know what love is supposed to feel like. But this ache in my chest, this desperate need to see her face, to hear her laugh, to feel her skin against mine... if that's not love, it's the closest I've ever come to it.
I press call, but it goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. She's probably already on a flight back home. Gone. Actually gone.
I sink to the floor, my back against the bed, and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars. This morning I was going to tell her I wanted to try. That I wanted her to stay. That maybe, just maybe, I was ready to take a chance on us.
But now there is no us.
There's just me, alone in a cabin with the ghost of what might have been, drowning in regrets and words I was too scared to say.
"Sam," I whisper to the empty room, her name like a prayer on my lips.
But there's no answer. There never will be again.