40. Reveal the Party #4
My voice softens. “We can't keep doing that.”
Mom looks toward Griffin.
Again.
This time I let her.
He is pale around the edges even weeks later when we talk about that night.
Something about her expression changes.
Not acceptance.
Maybe recognition that this isn't theoretical for him.
“You were there?” she asks.
Griffin nods. “Yes.”
“Clay said you work EMS.”
“I do.”
Her eyes shine again. “And you were the one who—”
“Ronan found her.”
The correction comes immediately.
Mom blinks.
Griffin continues. “He stayed with her until EMS arrived. He rode in with her. Micah got Dex to the hospital.”
He glances at me. “All of them were there.”
My heart squeezes painfully.
Mom has no response.
Good.
Let that sit.
Four men.
Four different roles.
No victim.
No spectator.
Family.
We stay another hour.
It isn't magically better.
Mom cries.
Dad asks more questions than she does.
Some are awkward.
A few are unintentionally offensive.
One makes Clay tell him, “Don't ask that,” before I can.
But nobody throws us out.
Nobody tells me not to come back.
Mom hugs me when we leave, even though she whispers, “I still don't understand this,” against my hair.
“I know.”
Dad hugs Griffin.
That surprises everyone.
Especially Griffin.
Clay gets cornered at the door by Mom, who apparently has decided he is personally responsible for keeping me alive forever.
He takes it with impressive patience.
When we reach the car, my entire body feels hollowed out.
Griffin looks at me over the roof. “You okay?”
“No.”
He nods.
“What do you need?”
My throat tightens.
Always.
But not right now.
“I think I need Ronan.”
There isn't even a flicker of hurt.
“Okay.”
That might be one of the reasons I love him so much.
Ronan is reading when I find him.
Because of course he is.
Book open.
Glasses on.
One ankle resting across the opposite knee.
He looks up.
His book closes immediately.
“How did it go?”
I stand in the doorway of his room. “They love me.”
His expression doesn't change.
“They don't approve.”
Still nothing.
“My mom hopes we all come to our senses.”
He removes his glasses and sets them on the table beside him before he stands. “Come here.”
Two words.
That's all it takes.
I cross the room and stop between his knees.
His hands settle at my hips.
Not pulling.
Waiting.
I put my palms against his shoulders.
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
“I don't want reassurance.”
“Okay.”
“I don't want anybody to tell me they're wrong or I'm right or everything will be fine.”
His thumbs move once against my sides. “What do you want?”
My eyes burn again.
I am so fucking tired of crying.
“I want to stop thinking.”
His gaze sharpens.
Not sexually.
Assessing.
Listening to the sentence underneath the sentence.
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
“That is not an answer.”
A weak laugh slips out.
Of course.
“An hour?”
“Better.”
I close my eyes.
“Make me stop making decisions for an hour.”
His hands tighten slightly.
“Do you want pain?”
“Not now.”
“Do you want sex?”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
His expression remains calm. “Do you want intensity or quiet?”
That question almost breaks me. “Quiet.”
The shift in him is subtle.
No performance.
No dramatic lowering of his voice.
Just attention narrowing until the rest of the room feels farther away.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“Good.”
His fingertips move beneath my chin.
“From this point forward, you answer questions I ask you. You do not solve problems I have not given you. You do not anticipate what comes next.”
My lungs finally fill all the way. “Okay.”
His thumb brushes my lower lip. “What did I say about answering?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
There.
The first thread in my head snaps loose.
He takes me by the hand and leads me to the basement.
As soon as we’re there, he takes my phone from my hand.
Puts it face down and out of reach.
Then his hands return to me.
“Clothes off.”
I obey.
Not fast.
He doesn't hurry me.
Shoes.
Jeans.
Shirt.
Bra.
Everything lands in a messy pile.
When I'm naked, he walks me toward the table.
My pulse climbs.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Safety dressed like surrender.
Then he straps me down.
Soft cuffs.
Wrists first.
Then ankles.
Every buckle checked twice.
Every point of contact predictable.
When he lifts the blindfold, I nod before he asks.
Darkness settles over me.
The world shrinks.
No parents.
No ICU.
No legal documents.
No future conversations waiting their turn.
Only the table under my back.
Ronan's hand around my wrist.
His voice. “Breathe.”
I do.
“In.”
Air fills my lungs.
“Out.”
My shoulders sink.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His fingers trace slowly over my arm, my ribs, my hip.
Never surprising me.
Never asking me to interpret anything.
When his mouth finds mine, the kiss is soft enough that my throat aches.
I expect hunger eventually.
He touches me like the goal is not to overwhelm me but to leave no room for anything else.
A palm over my stomach.
Lips against my throat.
His voice telling me when to breathe, when to open, when to relax.
Soon his fingers are between my thighs.
Then grazing my pussy lightly.
Then harder.
And harder still.
But they stay outside—perfect pressure without giving me what I really want yet.
When pleasure starts building, my body tries to chase it on habit.
His hand stills. “No.”
The word slides directly through me.
I stop.
“Good girl.”
My eyes sting beneath the blindfold in relief.
Nothing is mine to manage.
Not even this.
“Again.”
His touch resumes.
Slow.
Measured.
I follow.
When he finally lets me come, there is no dramatic command.
Just his mouth close to my ear.
“You want to come? Show me.”
So I do.
The release rolls through me, warm rather than violent, every muscle tightening and then slowly unspooling against the table.
My mind goes beautifully blank.
No arguments.
No defense.
No version of myself I need anyone to understand.
He pushes me over the edge a few more blissful times before he fucks me.
And when he does, he fucks me hard.
His hands on my thighs are tight.
His fingers likely marking my skin despite the fact that I am also strapped to the table.
I feel him pulse inside me on a groan.
Ronan keeps one hand flat against my sternum until both of our breathing evens out.
“There you are.”
I swallow. “I'm tired.”
“I know.”
He removes the cuffs before the blindfold.
Wrists.
Ankles.
Then darkness lifts.
His face is the first thing I see.
Calm.
Certain.
Mine.
He wraps a blanket around me and helps me sit.
I lean immediately into his chest.
He goes still for half a second, tracking the contact.
Then his arms close around me.
Predictable.
Firm.
Safe.
“I love you,” I whisper.
His mouth presses to my hair. “I love you too.”
I close my eyes.
Upstairs, there are three more people who love me.
Across town, there are two people trying to understand how that can possibly be true.
I don't need to solve that tonight.
Ronan said I don't have to solve anything right now.
So we don't.