Chapter Forty-Seven
Chloe
I took a long shower, letting the boiling water burn away the tension that had settled in my bones. But no matter how hot it was, it couldn’t burn away the anxiety tearing my chest.
And the rest of the night was just relentless.
I paced the room all night. Every sound, every small creak outside was enough to make my pulse spike, each time convincing myself it was Zane coming back. But it never was.
The sun began to rise, and still, no sign of him.
Minutes stretched into hours, until a knock at my door made my breath hitch. I rushed to open it, only for my stomach to sink with disappointment again.
“Good morning, Chloe,” Clarisse greeted, holding a tray filled with food that instantly made my stomach churn. “You didn’t come down for breakfast, so I thought I’d bring it up.”
I stepped aside, letting her in and rushed back to the window, afraid I’d miss something.
I heard her setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. But when I didn’t answer, she joined me by the window.
“How do you do it?” I swallowed hard, the words scraping dryly against my throat. “The stress of not knowing if he’s coming back?”
“You don’t,” she admitted after a moment. “You just learn to live with it.”
Her hand touched my arm gently, and my head turned to meet her eyes. There was something quiet and knowing in them.
“Zane’s strong. He’s been through a lot and always comes back.”
“I know he can handle himself, but…” My voice cracked. “What if this time is different?”
Clarisse exhaled softly. “I’ve seen a lot of them go,” she murmured with sadness. “And we can’t control what happens out there. All we can do is trust them to come back. And if they don’t… we find a way to keep going.”
Her words offered little comfort, but I nodded, forcing myself to swallow the lump in my throat.
The room fell silent again, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
Clarisse stayed a while, her quiet presence the only thing giving me some sense of comfort. She tried to get me to eat a few times, but I couldn’t think about food until she eventually gave up and left to tend to her duties, reminding me that the world wouldn’t stop spinning just because I had.
The hours dragged on, each minute an eternity.
I stayed by the window, watching, waiting, hoping.
And still, Zane didn’t come back.
It was the middle of the night. My eyes were burning with exhaustion by now, but I couldn’t make myself sleep.
Clarisse had convinced me to let her set the fireplace before heading to bed, confident that its warmth would help soothe me. But not even the hypnotic flicker of the flames could quiet my mind.
It kept racing, circling back to the same thoughts, trying to figure out a way to get out of this mess. Trying to come up with a better plan, one that didn’t end with me with blood on my hands.
But all those thoughts ended the very same way, with my sister lined up on that stage again. Bruised and abused. Bare. Stripped of her dignity and her future.
Because of me.
If I slipped, if I tried anything, she’d pay the price.
Three shipments. I reminded myself. It was not like it was a lifetime… and one was already down.
Tears burned behind my eyes, and I blinked them back, curling deeper into the blanket, trying to shut the thoughts out. But I could still feel her hands, the way her fingers trembled as she clung to me. The way her eyes wanted so bad to believe me when I promised she was going to be okay.
And then, as my eyelids finally began to close, a sound came—
I lifted my head from the pillow, ears straining. Footsteps. Heavy ones.
His.
I bolted upright as the door creaked open, my breath catching.
Zane stepped inside, his broad silhouette outlined by the warm and golden glow of the fire.
“Zane,” I breathed in relief.
He shut the door behind him, moving slowly, heavy with exhaustion.
I walked slowly too, meeting him halfway across the room with my heart aching at the sight of him. I wanted to run to him, throw myself into his arms, but the guilt in my chest held me back.
“You’re back.” I whispered more to myself than to him, finally closing the distance until my hands rested on his chest.
His fingers brushed over mine before his palm pressed my hand harder against his heartbeat as if he needed to feel me there too.
“And you’re wearing my shirt,” he said, obvious delight in his tired eyes, his lips curving slightly.
I blushed, biting my bottom lip.
I wanted to feel connected to him, so I may have wandered into his room, lingered over his collection of watches, and brushed the fabrics of his clothes until picking this one to wear. Guilty.
My eyes scanned him. His shirt was stained, his tattooed knuckles bruised, and dried blood streaked his hands, neck, and jaw, though it didn’t seem to be his.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
“It’s fine,” he rasped. “It’s been taken care of.”
His face was shadowed, but there was exhaustion in every line.
“Is Ivar—” I swallowed hard. “Is everyone okay?”
I asked, but the truth was, I didn’t want to know. I didn’t think I could bear the guilt if something had happened to any of them because of me.
“He’s fine,” he replied with a sigh, his shoulders slumping. His eyes kept avoiding mine, not sure if it was because he was tired or something else. “I just need a shower.”
His shoulder brushed against mine as he walked towards the bathroom.
He was here, alive, but still felt so far away. The distance he was forcing between us felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and watching him walk away made my heart weigh a thousand pounds. It broke me to know that I was part of the reason he looked so defeated.
My eyes lifted to the bathroom door when the sound of running water started, and I followed it.
Zane was already in the bathtub, head leaning back against the porcelain edge, water still running as the ripples hit against the deep lines of his muscles. His eyes were closed, his jaw tight.
I hesitated for a moment, not because of fear, but because I wanted to admire him a bit longer, this unguarded side he never let anyone see. And even like this, defeated and drained, he was still the strongest, most formidable man I had ever seen.
Walking in, I grabbed the hand towel from the counter on my way and sat on the edge of the tub. I knew he felt me there, but he didn’t move. He didn’t need words—he never did. So, I took his hand and rested it on my lap, letting my fingers trace it over before I started cleaning.
His skin usually so hot and charged, was cold now, not even the water’s heat could warm it. His fingers were rough under my own, nicked with small cuts and dried blood. His knuckles bruised and open from hours of hitting something—or someone.
He flinched when I pressed the towel gently to his knuckles, but he didn’t flinch from the pain, it was surprise, maybe even distrust.
“Let me,” I murmured, pulling him back, dipping the towel again and carefully wiping away the dried blood. Water lapped softly against the porcelain, the only sound between us before I spoke again. “What happened?”
I almost bit my tongue, hating my own hypocrisy. I knew what had happened, or at least I had an idea, but I still wanted to be here for him, I wanted to make it easier somehow. It was the only way I could apologize.
He still didn’t move. With his head slumping back and eyes still shut he answered, “Nothing you need to lose sleep over.”
“I already have.”
The confession slipped before I could stop it, and that finally made him open his eyes—those cold blues, always sharp even in exhaustion.
He didn’t speak right away, just watched me in silence while I cleaned the streaks of blood running down his arm, his gaze tracking every movement like he was seeing me for the first time since he arrived.
“Was it something to do with the Red Scorpions?”
He simply nodded.
“They’re not hiding anymore,” he said after a moment, his voice gravelly, “not like before, and they’re getting bold. The cargo we lost last night just proves it.”
The words landed like stones in my stomach. Confirmation, Bruce got his first shipment, my sister will be safe until the next one, and still, guilt almost made me choke.
I stood and pulled off my shirt, sliding into the tub with him and turning off the running water on my way down. The warm water slowly chased away the chill off my skin and I hoped it could eventually chase the guilt too.
His eyes silently devoured me, following my every move as I knelt between his legs.
I leaned in, moving the towel to the edge of his jaw next, wiping away what still clung there, then down to his neck and chest, trying to scrub away more than just the dirt. Trying to wipe away the night, the agony, the weight of whatever he’d done so that my sister and I could live another day.
Until my fingers landed on the fresh scar on his shoulder. The one from the bullet he’d taken for me that night at Bruce’s club.
My fingertips lingered there, tracing the red around it and kept going, following the curve of his shoulder before trailing down his bicep, stopping near his elbow, where he had another one, thin, long, likely from a knife a long time ago.
His eyes never left me, watching my every move with quiet intensity, letting me touch him, letting me see those pieces of a past he rarely spoke about, and I found myself wanting to know the story behind each mark.
Then my fingers moved lower, tracing the hard lines of his torso, brushing over another faint scar near his ribs, just above the waterline. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, but the muscle in his jaw twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop me or pull me closer.
The air thickened, heavy with steam all around us.
“Does it ever stop hurting?” I asked, my finger stopping over the scar.
Zane’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t answer.
I lowered myself, pressing my lips softly against the scar near his ribs.
His body tensed, his breath hitching, but he didn’t stop me.