Chapter 48
Colter looks wrecked.
Not the polished, controlled version of him I’m used to. The one who is always ten steps ahead. This version looks like he’s been holding himself together with sheer will and caffeine. His eyes are rimmed red, his jaw tight, his attention fixed on me like I might vanish if he blinks.
There’s relief there. And pain. Twisted together like dark vines.
My memory is still foggy, but pieces are surfacing the longer I study him. Familiar things start to click into place, rearranging themselves into something heavier.
“I’m going to let your father know you’re awake,” he says quietly. “And get Elias back down here.”
“Sutton?” I ask before he can turn away. The name comes out rough, like my throat hasn’t caught up to my thought’s yet. “She was in the car with me. When they hit it.”
Colter nods immediately. “She’s okay. Physically, anyway.” His mouth tightens. “She feels bad that she couldn’t do more to help.”
The knot in my chest loosens.
She’s alright. At least that part isn’t on me. I’d worried they killed her, or that they had lied about having her.
Colter pulls his phone out, turning away slightly as he makes the call. His voice drops into that clipped, efficient tone I’ve heard before—giving instructions, not asking permission. He says my name once, tells someone I’m conscious, and ends the call without ceremony.
When he turns back, he reaches for my hand again like instinct.
“My arm doesn’t feel so bad,” I tell him. It aches and twinges, but it could be worse.
“That’s because you’re medicated,” he says, attempting a smile. It doesn’t quite stick.
“They did a good job,” I murmur.
That earns a quiet laugh, soft, surprised, like it slipped out without his consent. I cling to the sound.
“Henry kept saying something strange,” I say. “The man you shot. He worked for Laurel all these years. Seducing my mother into drugs.”
“I know,” he whispers sadly. “Ace managed to pull up everything on him. I’m sorry, Peyton.”
I shake my head, refusing to let the tears fall.
“When I was…there,” I swallow and continue.
“He kept asking me about the family. About what I knew about it. I remember thinking it was strange. But the more he ranted, the more things began to make sense. All the warnings you gave me. Why John kept insisting on driver’s taking me everywhere.
Why the town fears you. Why everyone takes your orders like it’s gospel. ”
He studies me for a moment, then reaches for the cup on the table and lifts the straw to my mouth. “Drink.”
I obey, taking slow sips even though my body wants more.
When he sets the cup down, he doesn’t pull away.
His thumb stays hooked around my fingers, grounding, like he’ afraid if he let’s go I’ll slip somewhere he can’t reach. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate. Not awkward. Loaded.
“I put it together,” I say softly. “Or at least…part of it.”
His jaw flexes.
“You shouldn’t have had to,” he replies.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t.” I take a shallow breath, my chest tightening. “I’m not stupid, Colter. I trusted you. Trusted all of you.”
That lands.
I feel in in the way his grip tightens, barely, like he’s restraining something violent and emotional at the same time. His gaze drops to our joined hands, then back to my face.
“I know,” he says. “And that’s on us. On me.”
The admission is quiet. Earnest. No deflection. No justification.
I swallow. “So tell me.”
His eyes darken. Not with anger, but with calculation. With the weight of deciding how much truth I can handle.
“The Shaw family isn’t mafia,” he says carefully. “Not in the way the movies make it look. Be we aren’t clean either.”
I let out a shaky breath. “That’s not comforting.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I didn’t think it would be.”
He shifts closer to the bed, lowering himself so we’re eye level. No towering. No intimidation. Just Colter—raw and stripped down.
“We control territory,” he continues. “We protect what’s ours. We make sure problems don’t grow teeth. And when we do…we handle them quietly.”
My stomach rolls, but I force myself to keep listening.
“Laure’s family operates differently,” he says. “Or…they did. They destabilized. They poisoned from the inside out. Your mother wasn’t collateral damage. She was a tactic. A pawn Laurel birthed in order to gain more power and favor.”
The word slices through me.
Pawn.
“And you didn’t tell me because…?” My voice cracks despite my effort to keep it steady.
“Because once you know,” he says, eyes locking with mine, “you can never unknow it. You become a target.”
I search his face for lies. For manipulation. For that smooth, dangerous charm he uses when he wants something.”
I don’t find it.
I find fear.
Fear of losing me.
“They would’ve used you,” he goes on. “If anyone found out you knew the innerworkings of the family, they would use you to get to me.”
“Someone did,” I whisper. “And I didn’t know anything.”
“I know,” he says, voice breaking just enough to terrify me. “And I will spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever gets the chance again.”
The promise isn’t dramatic.
It’s final.
I close my eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the weight of everything crashing down at once. My childhood, my mother, the town, the blood on Colter’s hands that he never let me see.
When I open them again, he’s still there. Still holding on.
“So what am I now?” I ask. “Protected. Or owned?”
Something dark flickers across his face at that.
“Neither,” he says firmly. “You’re mine.”
My pulse stutters.
“I didn’t choose this life.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you choose me. Or you don’t. And if you want to walk away from me, from your family…I will let you.”
I study him. Really study him.
The man who tore apart an entire operation to get me back. The man who looks like he hasn’t slept since the second I was taken. The man who is dangerous enough to terrify an entire town, and gentle enough to hold a cup to my lips like I might shatter.
“And if I stay?” I ask.
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse.
“Then I stop hiding,” he says. “No more half-truths. No more pretending I’m something safer than I am.”
My heard pounds.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth, the terrifying, impossible truth, is this: I should be afraid.
But lying here, with his hand wrapped around mine and his world finally laid bare…
I don’t feel trapped.
I feel seen.
“Peyton…”
Before he can finish the doctor enters with a nurse at his side, smiling like this is simply another house call instead of the aftermath of violence.
I remember him. Elias. The same doctor who came with my father for the paternity test. He asks me questions, shines a light in my eyes, inspects my stitched-up wounds.
I try to focus, but Colter is still at my side, arms crossed, watchful and unyielding.
When the doctor asks him to step outside, Colter doesn’t move.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls.
Elias sighs but relents after I promise to focus. Eventually the machines are removed and the IV disconnected. Exhaustion seeps into my bones the moment they’re gone.
I must fall asleep, because the next time I open my eyes, the room is darker.
Muted light spills in from the bathroom.
Colter stands near the bed, a towel slung slow on his hips, his back to me as he speaks quietly into his phone. I catch fragments—plans, names, threats postponed.
“You can call her tomorrow and come visit in a few days when she can get out of bed. No sooner,” he orders before ending the call.
He turns and freezes when he sees I’m awake.
A slow smile curves his mouth as he walks toward me. His hair is damp, water still clinging to his skin.
“You’re up,” he says.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep again,” I say sheepishly. “I didn’t realize how tired I was.”
“You need food,” he replies. “But bathroom first.”
He helps me sit up, careful of my cut arm and wounded shoulder. If there is anything I’m thankful for, it is that Laurel knifed me on the same arm as Henry. I glance down and realize I’m wearing a silk pink nightgown that I’ve never seen before.
“I had Sutton pick up a few things,” he explains when he notices my confusion.
In the bathroom, I refuse an audience. When I’m done, he’s right there again, anchoring me.
“Can you help me with some new underwear?” I ask, heat blooming on my cheeks.
His mouth twitches. “Of course.”
He helps me sit, disappears briefly, then returns with a pair of matching pink panties. He crouches in front of me without hesitation, all control and focus, and I let him help because I’m too tired to argue—and because he won’t let go.
When I’m settled back against the pillows, he straightens and smooths the blankets over my legs.
“Rest,” he says. “I’ll have food brought in.”
I don’t fight him. Because after his confession. After he finally gave me the truth, something shifted.
And whether I fully understand everything or not, I know this much.
Colter Shaw is mine.