Chapter Twenty Nine
Cassandra
The quiet is the strangest part.
No hum of machines.
No shouting for morphine.
No sand grinding in my teeth.
Just the drip of the faucet in Dax’s kitchen and the low thud of his boots pacing across wood instead of dirt.
Two months. That’s all it’s been since the war spat us back out, but it feels like a lifetime ago and yesterday all at once. My volunteer stint ended, his discharge papers came through, and suddenly the desert let us go.
Only it didn’t. Not really.
He still wakes gasping, shirt soaked, eyes wild like he’s back under fire.
I still hear the monitors in my head when the house gets too quiet.
The war doesn’t stay overseas. It comes home with you.
It crawls into your bed, into your lungs, into the spaces between your ribs where love is supposed to live.
I should feel safe but safety feels like a lie when every time I look at him, I see blood on his skin and my own hands shaking trying to keep it in.
The dress hangs crooked on the back of the door, a pale blue thing Lola swore would look “soft but not sad” when I stood beside her on the biggest day of her life.
I’ve tried it on twice. Both times I cried. Not because of the dress—because of what it means. Because my best friend is about to walk down an aisle and the man I love barely survived long enough to see it.
Dax sits at the table, lacing up black shoes like he’s prepping for inspection instead of a wedding.
His shoulders are sharp lines under his shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tattoos like shadows creeping down his forearms. He looks whole.
He looks lethal. He looks like everything war turned him into, even if the uniform’s gone.
But I see the cracks.
I see the tremor in his left hand when he ties the laces.
I see the way his jaw locks when laughter from the street filters through the window, too loud, too sudden.
I see how he never sits with his back to the door.
I brush past him, fingers skimming his shoulder like I’m reminding myself he’s real. He doesn’t flinch. Not anymore. But his eyes flick up to mine, pale and haunted, like he’s been waiting for something to explode in the middle of the kitchen.
“You okay?” I whisper.
His smirk is slow, tired, jagged. “Depends. You planning on dragging me into another chapel?”
The joke should sting—it does sting—but it also makes me want to kiss him until we forget. I roll my eyes, grab the coffee mug he’s been ignoring. “This time you don’t get to play the drunk soldier. You’re giving your sister away.”
His face twists. That crack widens. For a second, I think he’s going to say no. That he can’t. That it’s too much.
Instead, he drags a hand down his face, mutters, “She deserves better than me limping down the aisle beside her.”
“You’re here,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. My throat tightens. “That’s all she ever wanted. That’s all any of us ever wanted.”
Silence folds between us. Heavy. Loud.
I turn, pretending to fuss with the dress, but I feel him watching me. Always watching, like he’s memorising me in case I vanish.
The wedding is three days away. Three days until I stand beside Lola while she starts a new life, while Dax pretends the past doesn’t sit heavy in his bones. Three days until everyone celebrates, and we try to believe we’re whole enough to celebrate too.
He hates the sound his boots make now.
That uneven drag-thud across the kitchen floor, like the limp is announcing itself before he even speaks.
Dax slams a mug down hard enough the handle cracks. “Fucking useless.”
My head jerks up. “You’re not.”
His laugh is sharp, bitter, and it cuts me deeper than any shrapnel ever could. He leans against the counter, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, blue eyes burning like he’s trying to scorch the whole room.
“Look at me, Cass.” He gestures at the leg he drags like a curse. “I didn’t come back whole. I’m not the man I was.”
My throat aches. “You came back alive.”
“Barely.” His voice drops, guttural. “And you deserve better than barely. You should find someone who isn’t broken. Someone who doesn’t wake up choking on sand and blood. Someone who won’t fucking limp into your life like a crippled ghost.”
I feel my chest cave, ribs folding in on my lungs, but I don’t move. I don’t run. I don’t flinch.
Instead, I step closer. “You think I care about whole? You think I care about perfect?”
He shakes his head, harsh, violent. “You should.”
I stop in front of him, so close his breath brushes mine. My hands tremble, but I force them onto his chest anyway, right over the heartbeat that still thunders no matter how much he hates himself.
“I’d rather have your broken than anyone else’s whole.”
He freezes. His eyes close for a second, like the words hurt more than the limp ever could.
When they open, they’re glassy. Fractured. Furious.
“Don’t say that, Butterfly,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Don’t love me like this.”
But I do.
God help me, I do.
“Don’t love me like this.”
The words scorch the air between us, jagged, venomous.
My nails bite into his shirt. “I don’t get to choose, Dax. I never did.”
His jaw snaps tight, teeth gritted. “You should have walked the second I left you in that kitchen. You should’ve fucking run.”
“Maybe I should have,” I snap back, my throat breaking, tears burning. “But I didn’t. Because I don’t want a man who’s untouched. I don’t want clean, easy, safe. I want you. Even broken.”
His hand slams against the counter beside my head, rattling the cracked mug. The sound ricochets through my chest.
“You don’t know what you’re saying—”
“I do!” My voice cracks wide open, raw, ugly. “I watched you bleed. I held you while you nearly died. You think a limp scares me after that? You think your scars make me want less?”
His breathing is jagged, chest rising like it’s trying to break out of his ribs. “You deserve better.”
I shove him hard in the chest, fury pouring out of me. “Stop deciding what I deserve. You’re not God, Dax. You’re just a man who’s too fucking scared to admit he’s still alive.”
His eyes blaze. His hand shoots out, gripping my jaw, tilting my face up until all I see is the storm in his.
“You think this is alive?” His voice is guttural, wrecked. “Dragging this body around like it’s half a corpse? Waking up choking on ghosts? Wanting you so bad it fucking kills me because I’ll never be enough for you again?”
My tears spill hot, my voice shaking. “You’re already enough. You always were. And I don’t want anyone else. Not ever. Don’t you get it? You are my better.”
Something inside him shatters. I see it—the crack, the give. His mouth crashes down on mine like he’s starving, like he’s furious, like he’s trying to burn every lie off his tongue.
It’s teeth, it’s tongue, it’s pain. His kiss is a war and I lose instantly, clawing at his shirt, pulling him closer until I can’t breathe.
He growls into my mouth, low and savage, lifting me onto the counter, his body wedging between my thighs like he’s claiming territory he swore he’d never touch again.
“Fuck, Butterfly…” His forehead slams to mine, his breath ragged. “I don’t deserve this—don’t deserve you—but I can’t stop.”
“Then don’t.” My voice is wrecked, begging. “Don’t stop, Dax.”
His hands drag up my thighs, rough, desperate. His lips bruise mine, then trail down my throat, biting, sucking, marking like he’s trying to prove he still exists, prove I’m still his.
I gasp, arching into him, my nails carving lines into his back through his shirt.
“You think I care about a limp?” I choke against his ear, my voice breaking. “The only thing I care about is this—your hands, your mouth, your fucking heartbeat against mine.”
He groans like I’ve gutted him, his grip punishing, dragging me closer. “Say it again.”
“I want you.” My lips tremble, my whole body shaking. “Even broken. Especially broken. Always you.”
His hips slam forward, grinding into me through denim, his cock hard and furious, his breath wrecked against my mouth.
“Christ,” he snarls, “you’ll be the death of me.”
“Then die here,” I whisper, kissing him again, messy and wet. “Die in me.”
And then he rips my shirt, his mouth crashing back to mine, pulling me into him like he’s never letting go again.
He doesn’t give me space to breathe. Doesn’t give me a second to think.
One second I’m pressed against the counter, my hands clawing at his shirt, my mouth ruined by his kiss—the next, he’s scooping me up like I weigh nothing.
I gasp, half a sob, half a moan, clinging to him as his arms lock around me. His lips don’t leave mine, not for air, not for mercy. Every step he takes toward the bedroom is punctuated by a kiss, a bite, a growl that vibrates straight down my spine.
His limp makes the steps uneven, jagged, but it doesn’t slow him. If anything, it makes the grip on my body tighter, fiercer, like he’s daring the world to watch him carry me anyway.
“Dax—” I whisper, but the sound’s swallowed by his mouth crashing back over mine.
“Don’t,” he growls against my lips, his breath hot, wild. “Don’t you ever tell me I’m broken again. Not when I can hold you like this. Not when I can fuck you like this.”
The door bangs open, slamming against the wall, and then we’re in his room, shadows and moonlight wrapping around us. He doesn’t set me down gently—he throws me onto the mattress like I belong there, like I’ve always belonged there.
And before I can even breathe, he’s on me.
His hands never stop. Dragging my shirt up, yanking it over my head, his mouth following every inch of skin exposed. His lips never stop. Biting, kissing, worshipping, ruining.
Every groan, every curse, every broken whisper is mine.
“Fuck, Butterfly—” His voice cracks against my collarbone. “You think I can’t carry you? You think I’ll ever let you go? Never. Never again.”
My back arches, my fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him closer. “Then prove it,” I choke out. “Prove you’re not leaving me again.”