Chapter Fifteen.
Damn, she was running late. Her co-workers probably thought she wasn’t coming in or worse something had happened to her.
She’d forgotten her phone charger at the store the evening before and by the time she’d realized her phone had died she wasn’t about to drive back to get the charger.
She also didn’t want to go back up there when all the other shops were closed.
Grabbing her bag, she scooped up her car keys and headed out.
at the last minute she flipped off the interior lights all but the hall one and turned on the outside light before locking up.
She’d left the lights on in case Frost came back.
But one day had turned into a week then two.
Now, it had been almost a month, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him.
Constance thought how chicken shit it was that he hadn’t called to tell her he wasn’t interested in continuing the relationship. She understood, it had been an intense few days. Sometimes things burned hot then cooled just as fast.
At first, she’d been worried, then pissed, after that emotion left her, she had been sad. Now, she didn’t harbor any ill will towards Frost, she was thankful for his attention. It let her know she could move on. That she was able to give someone her attention and her affection.
Halfway to the car she saw him, he was leaning against his bike, long legs kicked out in front of him. Ankles crossed. Cigarette hanging from his lips. Eyes fixed on his phone. Then he looked up at her and she was stuck staring back at him.
How had she not heard his bike? How long had he been out there?
Agitated over the whole damn thing Constance turned around, unlocked the door and went back inside.
She hoped he didn’t expect her to run across the yard and throw herself at him.
Because fuck that, she be damned if she threw anything at him unless it was something heavy that would hurt when it hit his dumb ass.
Constance stood near the window, arms crossed tight like she could hold herself together if she tried hard enough. Outside, the world pressed in—quiet, watching. She heard him enter the house, it wasn’t like it was a huge place. She didn’t turn to face him, just continued to look out the window.
“You gonna keep starin’ out there,” he said behind her, voice low, rough, “or you gonna look at me?”
She turned slowly. Her eyes were bright, angry and hurt and tired all at once. “You don’t get to disappear for weeks and then act like nothing happened.”
He took that hit without flinching. “Didn’t say nothin’ happened.”
The space between them snapped. He crossed it in two steps, skirted the island, stopping so close she could feel the heat of him, smell the road still clinging to his cut and skin.
“I had business for the chapter, I couldn’t tell you without dragging you deeper into my world and you don’t deserve that shit.”
Constance laughed softly, broken. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Something in him cracked then. She saw it, felt it, when his jaw tightened and his hands flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back.
“Christ, Constance ,” he muttered, forehead dropping to hers. “You’re the only thing I don’t know how to lose.”
And he was afraid if he’d come to her that night after what he’d done to Tiny and Booger…he wouldn’t have been able to handle what he’d have seen in her eyes.
Her breath hitched. Her hands came up, gripping his shirt like she needed proof he was real, that he wasn’t about to vanish again. “Then don’t leave.”
That did it.
His mouth found hers … hard, desperate, full of everything he hadn’t said.
The kiss wasn’t pretty. It was messy and aching and raw, like they were fighting for ground they’d both already claimed.
He backed her into the wall, body caging her in, not to trap her—but because he needed to feel her there. Solid. Choosing him.
His hand slid to her hip, thumb digging in like he was anchoring himself. “You make me weak,” he growled against her mouth. “And I hate how bad I fuckin’ need you.”
She met that darkness without fear. “Then need me.”
The words hit him square in the chest.
He rested his forehead against hers again, breathing hard, the restraint costing him something fierce.
When his lips traced her jaw, her neck, slow, reverent.
It wasn’t about taking. It was about claiming something he was terrified to lose.
Outside, the wind rattled the trees. Inside, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the way he held her like letting go would break him.
For the first time in a long time, Frost was choosing to stay.
“I need a shower. I need you.” he said, his voice low, strained, it held so much emotion he trembled.
“I need to go to work.”
“No. Stay here with me. A little while. Please.” God he sounded so pathetic, weak, he didn’t care. All he’d thought about while he’d been away was getting back to her. Hoping praying that he hadn’t completely fucked up.
He wasn’t used to feeling this way. He didn’t know how to deal with them. But he was willing to learn, to figure it out—with her. If she’d let him. If she could forgive him.
She let go of him, stepping back only long enough to set her things on the counter. Her fingers found his again, grounding, familiar, and she led him toward the bathroom without a word.
The space was small, intimate, and when she turned on the shower the sound of the water filled the silence between them. Steam began to rise almost immediately, curling around his shoulders, softening the edges of a man who looked worn down to the bone.
Constance reached for him and eased his leather cut from his shoulders.
It was heavier than she expected, or maybe it just felt that way because of everything it carried with it, weeks gone, nights she hadn’t slept, questions she wouldn’t ask.
She hung it carefully on the back of the door, giving it the deserved respect that came with wearing it.
When she turned back to him, she didn’t rush. She helped him undress, her hands gentle, deliberate. His skin was warm beneath her touch, but she could feel the fatigue in him, the way his shoulders sagged the moment he let her take over.
He’d been gone a month. Not a call. Not a word. And now he was here, standing in her bathroom, asking her to stay a little while —as if he wasn’t already asking for more than that.
She heard it in his voice when he said it. Felt it in the way his fingers tightened briefly around hers. Whatever he’d ridden into, whatever had kept him away, it had taken something out of him.
So she stayed.
Constance didn’t ask where he’d been. Didn’t ask what had happened. According to Faith, club business was its own language, and she needed to know it was best left alone.
For now, it was enough that he was here. That he’d come back to her.
Constance stayed with him, hands steady as she finished helping him out of the last of his clothes. When he was bare beneath the spray, exposed in a way he rarely allowed, she pressed her palm between his shoulder blades—anchoring him there, reminding him he wasn’t alone.
“Just stand,” she murmured softly.
She guided him closer, close enough that the steam beaded on his skin. When she reached past him and adjusted the water, she waited until it was just right before nudging him beneath the spray.
The water hit his shoulders first, darkening his hair, tracing the lines of old scars and fresh tension alike. Frost let out a slow breath, his head tipping forward as if his body had been holding itself together by sheer will until that moment.
“I’ve got you.”
Only then did she turn away. She shed her own clothes quickly, deliberately, leaving them in a small pile by the sink. When she stepped back under the spray with him, the water soaked them both, heat wrapping around them like a shield against everything outside the bathroom door.
She reached for the soap and worked it between her hands before smoothing it over his skin. Her touch was unhurried, reverent. She washed him the way you take care of someone you’ve worried about for too long—shoulders first, then his arms, easing the stiffness from muscles she knew were exhausted.
Frost stayed still for her, eyes closed, trusting her with the kind of vulnerability he never showed the world.
When her fingers brushed along his jaw, tilting his face up so the water could rinse away a month’s worth of road and sweat and whatever else he’d carried back with him, his breath caught.
She felt it. The emotion he’d tried to bury. The need he hadn’t voiced out loud. She leaned in, pressing her forehead briefly to his chest, letting the water wash over them both. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
The water kept pouring over him, steady and relentless, and at first Frost stayed upright through it—muscle memory, discipline, the same way he’d held himself together for weeks on the road.
She moved around him washing his back, his legs, even his feet. Her hands lathered roamed over his aching tired muscles. His hands slid to the tile, palms braced as his head dropped forward. Just a fraction. Just enough.
Constance felt the shift immediately. The tension she’d been easing out of him didn’t release—it gave way. His shoulders bowed, breath shuddering once, sharp and uneven before he could stop it.
She stepped closer, pressing her body to his back, grounding him with her weight. One arm wrapped around his middle, the other splayed flat over his chest, right above his heart.
“Hey,” she murmured, low and steady. “I’m here. You’re here.”
Her words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t need to be. They were facts.
Frost swallowed hard, eyes still closed.
“Didn’t think I was gonna get back to you,” he admitted quietly, the confession barely louder than the water.
No details. No explanations. Just the truth he could manage.
He didn’t explain it wasn’t the chapter or the business they’d tended too but his own demons that kept him away.
Her grip tightened—not restraining, just present. “You did,” she said. “You’re home.”
His breath broke again, deeper this time, chest expanding beneath her palm like he was relearning how to breathe. He leaned back into her, trusting her to hold the weight he’d been carrying alone.
Constance shifted, turning him slightly so she could face him. She cupped his face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes where exhaustion had carved itself deep. She didn’t wipe away tears—there weren’t any yet—but she stayed there, steady, until his breathing evened out.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
When he did, his eyes were glassy, raw in a way she’d never seen a man’s before. Not weak. Just open.
She rested her forehead against him, letting the water cascade around them. “You don’t have to say anything,” she told him. “You don’t have to be anything right now.”
Her hand slid back to his chest, grounding him again. One slow breath. Then another. And gradually, she felt him come back to her. Still tired. Still worn. But no longer lost.
Constance turned off the water and reached for the towel hanging from the rack. She dried them both, slow and thorough, as if she were afraid, he might slip away again if she rushed. She wrapped the towel around Frost’s waist before pulling her robe on, tying it loosely at her middle.
She kept an arm around him as they made their way to the bedroom, his weight heavy against her side. He barely managed to climb into the bed before exhaustion claimed him completely. One moment he was there, eyes half-open, and the next he was gone—breathing deep, body slack, finally letting go.
Constance tucked her lips inward, shaking her head softly.
Of course he would crash now. Of course he’d held on just long enough to know he was safe.
She pulled the covers over him, tucking them around his shoulders the way she would someone she loved more than they’d ever know.
For a moment, she stood there watching him sleep, committing the sight to memory—proof that he was really here.
Then she turned away, heading back to get dressed. She’d leave a note on the counter, letting him know she’d gone into town, that she’d be back in a few hours. She hoped when he woke up, he’d stay and wait for her.