9. Daltyn
DALTYN
I should be asleep.
Instead, I’m pacing the loft like a damn lunatic while Peyton sleeps downstairs.
At least, I think she’s asleep.
The cabin is quiet enough that every creak of the floorboards sounds too loud.
My bare feet move across the wood while I drag a hand through my hair for what’s probably the hundredth time tonight.
This is bad.
Bringing Peyton here was already dangerous enough.
Then I gave her my hoodie. Fed her pasta in my kitchen. Listened to her laugh her way through me unpacking her luggage while she bossed me around and nearly killed me with black lace panties and a fucking vibrator.
My jaw tightens.
I stop pacing long enough to yank my shirt over my head before tossing it toward the chair in the corner of my room .
Cold mountain air brushes against my skin from the cracked window nearby.
Usually, this place calms me down. Tonight, it feels too small. Too warm. Too full of her.
I exhale hard and grab my jeans from where I dropped them earlier, then shove my hands into the pockets and empty them.
I pull out my wallet, keys, and… what the hell?
Slowly, I pull Peyton’s panties from my pocket.
I go completely still.
Fuck.
The delicate material hangs between my fingers while every inappropriate thought I’ve been trying to suppress all night slams directly into me again.
Jesus Christ.
I stare at them for a long second before tossing them onto my nightstand like they burn me.
Then I resume pacing.
That lasts all of thirty seconds before I stop and stare at them. Because now they’re just sitting beside my bed like some kind of twisted temptation.
My mind keeps drifting back to them, no matter how many times I try forcing it away.
This is ridiculous.
I’m twenty-three years old, not some horny teenager losing my mind because a beautiful woman exists downstairs.
Except Peyton Sinclair isn’t just beautiful. She’s funny. Chaos wrapped in blonde hair and attitude.
She’s also vulnerable right now. Displaced.
And she trusts me.
Instead of acting like a normal human being, I’m upstairs staring at her goddamn panties like a completely obsessed asshole.
I scrub a hand down my face.
“You’re losing it,” I mutter.
The problem?
I already know I lost it.
Seeing her wearing my hoodie tonight pushed me over the edge.
I climb into bed. I’m on my back, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
That somehow makes things worse.
All I can picture is Peyton asleep downstairs, wrapped in my clothes, while I lie here as hard as a fucking rock thinking about her underwear, soft skin, pink lips, and the sound of her laughter in my kitchen.
“Fuck this.” The word leaves me rough and low.
Before I can think better of it, I grab the panties from the nightstand.
The second the soft lace wraps around my fist, every ounce of control I’ve been clinging to snaps.
My head falls back against the pillows as I palm myself through my sweats.
Peyton’s face floods my mind. Her blue eyes. Her smart mouth. The way she looked at me tonight like she enjoyed making me unravel.
I pull myself free of the material, working myself harder.
My breathing roughens as I picture Peyton in my hoodie, wearing nothing but panties underneath.
The lace against my dick has my control slipping even more.
Suddenly, I’m envisioning her beneath me. Whispering my name while our bodies move together on my bed .
My grip tightens. Possessive thoughts slide in fast and ugly.
Mine.
She’s all mine.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it nearly pushes me over the edge.
By the time I come, my chest is heaving hard enough to hurt.
Silence crashes over the loft afterward.
Reality settles in seconds later.
I stare at the ceiling, disgust twisting through my gut while Peyton’s panties still hang from my hand.
What the fuck am I doing?
Shame crawls beneath my skin.
Peyton’s downstairs sleeping in my guest room because her home was destroyed. She trusted me enough to come here and stay.
And I’m upstairs acting like some obsessed asshole jerking off while holding her underwear.
I shove the cum-soaked panties onto the nightstand and scrub both hands down my face hard enough to sting.
You need to get your shit together.
Peyton’s vulnerable. The last thing she needs is another man who makes her feel unsafe.
My chest tightens painfully. I would never hurt her. Never.
But the truth is, men like my father probably believed things like that once, too.
The thought makes me sick.
I stare at the ceiling, full of self-loathing.
Until exhaustion finally drags me under.
I wake up drenched in sweat, my fists clenched in the sheets, chest heaving like I ran a marathon through hell.
My eyes sweep the room like I need proof I’m not back in that house. That I’m not a scared kid again. That it was only a dream.
Except it wasn’t.
It was a memory.
My mom’s blue eyes were wide with panic. Her shoulders were shaking. Her lips were trembling as she begged, “Please, not in front of him.”
But the monster never listened.
He stormed into the room, grabbed her by the hair, and yanked so hard she screamed.
“You think you can serve me this cold shit and get away with it?”
She could barely move; his grip was so tight.
I exhale a shaky breath, staring at a spot on the floor.
You’re not there. It was just a nightmare.
But my mind refuses to leave it alone.
It never mattered what the excuse was. If dinner was late. The mashed potatoes were lumpy. Or he was in a bad mood. There was always a reason to hurt someone.
Every excuse was a ticket to violence.
And no matter how many times I stepped between them, no matter how many fists I took, I could never stop him.
The memory of his belt cracks through my skull like it still echoes in the walls of my childhood home.
The snap.
The sick satisfaction in his voice every time she cried while he beat me.
I’d take the beatings if it meant sparing her. But even that never guaranteed anything .
Some nights, we both bled.
I scrub a hand down my face. My chest is still tight.
Peyton’s the first person I’ve let this close in years.
And the thought of hurting her, even by accident, is unbearable.
That’s why I need to put walls between us.