Chapter 49
FORTY-NINE
ryder
Heart hammering against my ribs, I roll over. Noia lets out a contented sigh as I pull her against my chest, her body warm and limp with exhaustion. I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, watching as her eyes flutter closed.
“You okay?” I brush a strand of hair from her face.
“Mmm,” she hums, already starting to drift. “Yes.”
Within minutes, her breathing deepens and evens out. She’s asleep, completely spent in my arms.
But the Sandman doesn’t come for me.
My mind races as it replays the past twenty minutes. The way my emotions shifted and how the sudden predatory instinct took over, driving me to hunt her down. How the rush of possessiveness and the need to claim her felt much like my own desire, but also like something that had been forced upon me.
I stare up at the ceiling, a cold knot forming in my gut. She can still control me. With just a few keystrokes, she can change how I feel, what I want, maybe even who I am.
What if I never had free will at all? What if every decision I’ve made since I showed up here, every feeling I’ve had for her, was caused by what Noia was writing every day?
How much control does she actually have over me?
My stomach twists into knots when I think about all the memories that have been slowly starting to surface—my time in Afghanistan, meeting Claire, and opening the tattoo shop with Jax.
Were those real memories I somehow forgot, or just a convenient backstory she created to make me more three-dimensional?
The thought makes my skin crawl. I spent years clawing my way back from addiction, fighting to regain control of my life, my body, my choices. And now I discover that at any moment, she could potentially override all of that with a just a few keystrokes?
Christ, now I’m starting to question if I am real.
I glance down at Noia, peacefully asleep on my chest. Her lips are slightly parted, face completely relaxed. She looks so innocent, so unaware of the doubt and confusion she’s triggered inside me.
She didn’t mean any harm—I know that. Just playing, testing boundaries, trying to make the game more exciting. But still...
What happens when we disagree about something important? What happens if we fight? Would she use her power to make me bend to her will? Could she make me love her if I didn’t already?
Do I even love her? Or was that the premise of my story from the beginning?
Carefully, I slide out from under her and pad quietly into the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face, I look in the mirror. The man staring back at me seems solid enough—the stubble on my jaw, the tiny scar above my eyebrow, the tattoos covering my arms and chest.
I grip the edges of the sink. The thought of not being in control of my own destiny makes my blood run cold. I’ve spent years fighting to regain control and just the thought I might never have had it to begin with is unbearable.
Moving silently back into the bedroom, I watch Noia sleep for a few moments longer. The moonlight streaming through the window makes her look almost ethereal.
I love her. That much I know with absolute certainty. But can I trust her with the very essence of who I am?
Grabbing my jeans from the floor, I pull them on and head downstairs. I need some air, some space to think.
Downstairs, I pace the living room, running my hands through my hair. Goonie watches me from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this?” I mutter to myself.
I grab a beer from the fridge and step outside onto the porch. The cool night air feels good against my bare chest as I drop into one of the Adirondack chairs and stare out at the dark trees.
This whole situation is fucked up beyond belief. I’m falling for a woman who literally created me. A woman who can apparently still change who I am with just a few words. How can I trust anything I feel? How can I be sure any of this is real?
I take a long pull from my beer, letting the cool, bitter liquid slide down my throat. The moon is high and full, casting silver light across the yard.
I remember the look on Noia’s face when she saw her tattoo for the first time—the wonder, the joy, the connection she felt to my art. That was real, right? It had to be.
And the way she trembled beneath me only a few minutes ago, the way she gasped my name as she came apart—that felt real too.
But now I’m questioning everything.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the dark.
I’ve already survived so much. But this—this existential mindfuck—might be what finally breaks me.
With a frustrated growl, I stand and go back inside.
Maybe a ride will clear my head.
I hurry into my room and grab a Henley from the closet and pull it over my head.
Back in the kitchen, I scribble a quick note and leave it on the counter.
After closing the front door, I shrug into my leather jacket, shove my helmet on, and straddle my motorcycle. The engine roars to life, and I tear down the drive.
I ride until the first hints of dawn start to streak the sky, then turn back. By the time I pull into the driveway, I’ve made a decision.
I need to know for sure if my life is really mine now. And there’s only one way to find out.