Chapter 54 The Kiss That Breaks All My Rules
AMANDA
I rush to the security office. Gerald’s gone.
I handled it, and Kade let me. That’s the thing that gets to me.
Gerald pushed boundaries more than he ever has before.
If it were any other time, I would’ve signaled for Cal to step in.
Hell, knowing Cal, I’m surprised he didn’t.
Which can only mean one thing: Kade stopped him.
He respected my ask. And I know what something like this cost him.
Cal is alone when I round the corner, staring at the parking garage monitors.
“Where’s Kade?” I ask.
He looks up, and there’s more emotion in the man’s eyes than I’ve ever seen before. “Parking garage. Bay C.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning to leave.
“Don’t put the poor guy through something like that again,” he says slowly.
His words stop me in mid-stride. “I think I know what you were trying to do, to prove to yourself. I get it. But you should have seen him. It was all he could do to stop himself. I’ve never seen anyone fight their own instincts that hard. ”
Guilt washes over me. All I can do is nod and rush out of the room.
I sprint to the elevators. My hands shake as I press the button for the parking level.
The ride down feels like it takes hours instead of seconds.
When the doors finally open, I step out into the concrete cavern and hear it immediately.
The sound of flesh hitting concrete. Again. And again. And again.
I run.
Bay C is in the far corner, and when I round the pillar, I see him.
Kade is standing in front of the wall, his right hand a bloody mess, still pulling back for another punch. Blood is splattered on his shirt. His breathing comes ragged, and there’s something wild and broken in the set of his shoulders.
“Kade!” I shout, but he doesn’t stop.
Another punch. More blood on the wall.
“Kade, stop!”
He freezes, his fist still pressed against the concrete, chest heaving. He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just stands there like a statue, trembling with whatever’s still coursing through his system.
I rush over. When I’m close enough, I see the extent of the damage—split knuckles, blood dripping down his fingers, swelling that suggests multiple broken bones.
“Kade,” I say softly, placing my hand on his arm. “Please. Stop.”
He lowers his hand slowly, and when he finally turns to face me, the look in his eyes breaks my heart. Raw pain mixed with what I can only describe as shame.
“I didn’t go after him,” he says, his voice rough and hollow. “You asked me not to, and I didn’t.”
“I know.” I take his injured hand gently, examining the damage. It’s bad. Really bad. “I know you didn’t.”
“But I wanted to. Fuck, I wanted to so badly.”
“I know,” I repeat, looking up at him. “But you didn’t. That’s what matters.”
“It doesn’t feel like it matters. It feels like failure. He touched you. Put his hands on you. And I let him.” His words are falling from his lips now in a stream of consciousness. “How am I supposed to live with myself?”
I look around quickly, assessing. My dress. Without hesitation, I grab the hem and tear off a long strip of fabric from the bottom. The sound seems to break Kade out of whatever fog he was stuck in.
“What are you doing?” Panic edges his voice.
“Taking care of you.” I wrap the fabric carefully around his bloody knuckles, using my teeth to help tie it off. It’s not a proper bandage, but it’ll do until we can get him real medical attention. “Can you ride?”
“Amanda—”
“Can. You. Ride?”
He looks at his wrapped hand, then at me. “Probably not well.”
“Good thing I’m driving, then.” I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
He reaches into his pocket with his uninjured hand and pulls out the key fob. When he drops it into my palm, our fingers brush, and I feel him shudder at the contact.
“Where are we going?” he asks as I lead him toward his bike.
“Somewhere we can talk. Really talk.” I hand him his helmet. “Get on.”
To his credit, he doesn’t argue. I swing my leg over and settle into the driver’s seat, then press the ignition button.
The engine roars to life beneath me, and for a moment, I’m transported back to our first month of marriage, when Kade spent hours in empty parking lots teaching me how to handle his bike.
Patient hands guiding mine on the clutch, his voice in my ear explaining throttle control, the way he’d laugh when I’d stall out and curse like a sailor.
“Relax, baby doll,” he’d say, settling behind me with his arms around my waist. “The bike can feel your tension. Trust yourself.”
I was terrified at first, convinced I’d kill us both, but he never wavered in his confidence that I could do it. By the end of that month, I could handle the bike almost as well as he could—a skill I’d completely forgotten I had until this very moment.
The muscle memory comes back faster than I expected. Clutch, gear, throttle, balance. It’s like riding a bicycle, except louder and more likely to result in serious injury if you fuck it up.
I feel Kade settle against my back, his arms wrapping around my waist. I know exactly where I’m taking him. The same overlook spot where Chad brought me just a few weeks ago, where we sat and talked about everything and nothing while watching the sun set over the Hudson.
The ride through the city and out toward the cliffs takes forty-five minutes.
I can feel the tension in his body, the way his grip on my waist tightens every time I take a turn that’s slightly more aggressive than necessary.
By the time we reach the overlook, the sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that are absolutely gorgeous.
I kill the engine and climb off the bike, pull off my helmet, and shake out my hair.
Kade follows suit, but he doesn’t say anything.
For a long moment, we just stand there in silence, looking out at the water.
The wind is cooler here, carrying the scent of the river and the sound of traffic from the highway below.
He breaks first. “I’m sorry.”
I turn toward him. “Why are you apologizing?”
His gaze stays fixed on the horizon. “Because I can’t do what you’re asking me to do.
I know you don’t need me, Amanda. I know that you spent the past eight years rebuilding yourself, while I spent them falling apart.
I know that you’re a badass who can handle herself, but the idea of just standing by, letting a guy like that put his hands on you.
” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I can’t. I can’t do it again. ”
I can see the anger start to course through him again. His fingers are gripping into fists despite the pain it must be causing him, and I reach out to him.
“I want to be your everything, just like you’re mine,” he says.
“And I know you don’t need me to protect you, but I need to protect you.
Not because you’re weak, not because you’re a woman, but because you are the most precious thing in my world.
And I’m never going to stop.” He finally turns to face me fully.
The setting sun reflects in his eyes and makes them look almost desperate.
“So tell me to leave. Tell me that you never want to see me again. I’ll live with that if that’s what you decide.
But I will always be there to protect you.
And deep down, I think you want that, too. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”
I’m quiet, because he’s right. Because I do want that, even though I’ve spent eight years trying to convince myself that I am perfectly capable of living alone, of taking care of myself, of being self-reliant.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“Of what?”
“Of needing you. Of letting you protect me and losing myself in the process. Of becoming someone who can’t function without you.”
He steps closer. “That’s not what I’m asking for.” He reaches out with his good hand, fingers hovering near my face but not quite touching. Asking permission. “I don’t want you to need me to survive, Amanda. I want you to want me because being together is better than being apart.”
His thumb finally makes contact, brushing across my cheekbone. “You’re still you. Strong, capable, badass you. Me being here doesn’t change that. It just means you don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”
Tears blur my vision. “What if you leave again?”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His jaw sets. “Because the worst thing that ever happened to me wasn’t the missions or the violence or any of the shit I saw overseas. It was being away from you. And I’m never doing that again.”
I look up at him—really look at him. At this man who broke his own hand rather than break my trust. Who’s standing here with blood on his shirt telling me he’d rather have me angry at him than not have me at all.
“I’m still angry,” I say.
“I know.”
“Not at you. At myself.” I swallow hard. “For putting you through that. Cal was right. I was trying to prove something to myself, and I used you to do it.”
“You were proving you could handle it. And you did.”
“At what cost?” I gesture to his wrapped hand. “Look at what it did to you.”
“This?” He holds up his injured hand. “This was worth it. Because it proves I can be the man you need me to be. The man who trusts you. Who respects your choices even when they kill me.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe.” He steps even closer now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “But it’s true.”
The wind picks up around us, whipping my hair across my face. He reaches out with his good hand and gently tucks the strands behind my ear. The gesture is so tender, so careful, that something inside me cracks wide open.
“Tell me your secret, Amanda.”
The words catch me off guard. “My secret?”
He cups my face in his hand. Not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that I can’t look away. His eyes burn with barely controlled emotion. “The one you’ve kept from everybody. The one you think makes you weak.”
“I don’t—”
“Go on.”
I try to turn my head, but his grip tightens slightly. “Kade.”
“I love you.” The words come out fierce and raw. “I’ve loved you every day for eight years. I loved you when I left. I loved you when I watched you from a distance. I loved you when you hated me. And I love you right now when you’re looking at me like I might break your heart all over again.”
My breath catches. Tears start to blur my vision. “Stop.”
“No. I can’t. And I’m not going to let you deny it any longer, either. Tell me your real name,” he says, and there’s pleading in his tone now. “Not the one you use at work. Not the one you tell your friends. Your real name. The one on your driver’s license. Your passport. Your tax returns.”
“Amanda Steele.”
It comes out as barely more than a whisper. The first time I’ve said it out loud in eight years. The first time I’ve admitted to anyone that I never legally changed my name back after he left. I never stopped being his wife, even when I convinced myself I had.
His eyes close briefly, like he’s absorbing the words. When they open again, they’re glassy with unshed tears.
“Say it again.”
“Amanda Steele.” Tears slide down my cheeks now. “I’m Amanda Steele.”
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, catching tears. “Why didn’t you change it back?”
“Because I couldn’t. I tried. I even downloaded the forms once. But every time I went to fill them out, I just… couldn’t. Because changing my name back meant admitting it was really over. And I wasn’t ready to do that.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing me.
His mouth crashes against mine with eight years of pent-up desperation and possession and love that neither of us has been able to let go of. It’s not gentle or careful or respectful of the boundaries I set up. It’s claiming and desperate and devastates every wall I’ve tried to build around myself.
I should pull away. Stick to my rules about taking things slow and keeping our hands to ourselves.
Instead, I melt into him like I’ve been waiting eight years for this exact moment.
Because I have.