25. Vincent
25
VINCENT
I lie on the padded therapy table, my muscles tense as I loop the thick rubber band around my foot. My leg aches, a deep, pulsing reminder of everything I’ve lost and everything I’m fighting to regain. The sterile scent of the rehab center mixes with a softer, more floral fragrance—Willow’s perfume. It’s light, fresh, an aroma I can't quite name, but it wraps around me like a whispered promise.
She stands beside me, her delicate fingers brushing my ankle as she adjusts the resistance band. Her touch is gentle but firm, confident in a way that makes my pulse stutter. Willow has a quiet strength about her, the kind that sneaks up on a person and leaves them breathless. She’s not just helping me stretch my legs—she’s holding me together, piece by stubborn piece.
“Push against it slowly,” she murmurs, her voice a melody of soft encouragement and quiet command.
I exhale through my nose and do as she says, pressing against the resistance band with controlled effort. My muscles tremble slightly, a painful reminder of how much work I still have left to do. I clench my jaw, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. It’s not supposed to be this hard. I’m not supposed to be this weak.
But then Willow squeezes my calf lightly, a small reassurance. “You’re doing good,” she says, her gaze locked on my leg, watching for any sign of strain.
I can’t help but watch her instead. The way her dark lashes frame her eyes, the slight furrow of concentration in her brow, the way her lips part as she observes me like she can see beyond the muscle and bone, straight into me. She’s beautiful in a way that feels dangerous, like looking too long might make me forget everything else.
And that terrifies me.
I force my focus back on the exercise, inhaling sharply as I pull my leg back to its starting position. Willow adjusts the band again, her hands sure and steady, like she’s done this a thousand times. Maybe she has. Maybe she’s always touched me like this the whole time, like she loves me, with warmth that seeps into my skin and settles in my chest.
But I doubt it.
Because when she looks at me, there’s a sentiment there. Something unspoken.
“How does it feel?” she asks, stepping back slightly, but not far enough that I can’t still feel the ghost of her hands on me.
“Like hell,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intended.
She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a sharp and unexpected sensation through my ribs. “Good. That means it’s working.”
My lips twitch despite myself. “You enjoy my suffering, don’t you?”
Her lips quirk, a playful glint in her eyes. “Just a little.”
Damn, she’s stunning. Not in an obvious, flashy way—no, Willow is the kind of beauty that creeps up on you, that makes you want to lean closer without realizing you’re doing it.
I exhale and push against the band again, my body rebelling, but I refuse to stop.
“Don’t overdo it,” Willow warns, her fingers lightly brushing against my knee, steadying me. “Pushing too hard could set you back.”
I grit my teeth, exhaling harshly through my nose. “I don’t have time for setbacks.”
Her gaze softens, unconditional love flickering across her face. “I know,” she says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
She knows. She always knows.
I hate that. Hate how easily she sees through me, how she can sift through all the bullshit and find the cracks underneath. I don’t want to be fragile. I don’t want to be seen as broken.
But Willow never looks at me like I’m broken.
And that scares me most of all.
She straightens, rolling her shoulders back as she reaches for a clipboard. “Let’s take a break. I don’t want you pushing past your limit.”
I exhale, reluctantly letting go of the band. My muscles tremble as I shift on the table, and before I can stop myself, Willow is there, steadying me with a hand on my arm.
Willow clears her throat. “We’ll try another set in a few minutes. Drink some water.”
I smirk, reaching for the bottle she hands me. “Bossy.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.
I take a slow sip, watching her over the rim. I should stop this. Whatever this is.
But as Willow turns away, already preparing for the next exercise, I know one thing for certain.
Stopping is the last thing I want to do.
I watch Willow move: the way she bites her lip in concentration, the way her fingers glide over the clipboard, following my doctor's orders to the letter. My chest tightens, not from pain, but from a deeper, more terrifying realization. I can’t live without her. I don’t even want to try.
A smug smile tugs at my lips as I set the water bottle down. “You know, Willow, if you keep taking such good care of me, I might start thinking you’re in love with me.” Just as much as I am in love with you.
She scoffs, but the blush creeping up her neck betrays her. “What do you think?” She looks at me through her eyelashes, a pout on her lips. “Am I in love with you?”
“Maybe.” I shift slightly, wincing as my muscles protest.
Willow shakes her head, exasperation flickering in her eyes, but she doesn’t move away when I reach for her wrist, my fingers curling gently around her pulse point.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice quieter now, more raw. “You keep me together, Willow. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She swallows, her lips parting like she wants to say something, but I don’t give her the chance. The words come before I even think them through.
“Marry me.”
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and unguarded. “Vincent-”
“Marry me,” I repeat, firmer this time, my grip on her wrist tightening just slightly, like I’m afraid she’ll pull away. “I still love you, Willow. And I don’t want to waste another damn second pretending I could ever live without you. You can’t live without me either, and you know it.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. I see it in her eyes—the hesitation, the war waging inside her. She’s already told me no once, but that was before. Before I realized I couldn’t live, couldn’t die, couldn’t exist in any way without knowing she’s my wife.
I don’t let go of her wrist. I don’t let her slip away. Not this time.
“You can say no again,” I tell her, my voice steady, sure. “And I’ll ask you again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Until you finally understand that there isn’t a world where I stop wanting you, where I stop needing you to be mine.”
Willow exhales shakily, but she doesn’t pull away. That’s a win. A small one, but I’ll take it.
“Vincent—”
“I don’t care how long it takes,” I cut in, my fingers tightening around hers. “I don’t care if you tell me a thousand times that it’s too complicated or too soon or whatever excuse you think I’ll accept. I won’t. Because the only thing I know, the only thing I’m sure of in my entire life, is that you are my dream, Willow.”
Her breath hitches.
I lift her hand, press it against my chest, right over my heart. “This? It’s yours. Always has been.”
She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me, like she’s trying to guard herself, but I see the way her eyes shine, the way her lips tremble.
“You don’t mean it,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “You’re just?—”
“I mean every damn word.” I tilt my head, my eyes locked onto hers. “So tell me no again, if you really want to. But just know, I’m not stopping. I’ll ask you every day, Willow. Because I already know how this ends.”
Her fingers twitch against my chest, like she wants to push me away but can’t bring herself to do it.
“And how does this end?” she asks, her voice unsteady.
I don’t hesitate. “With you as my wife.”
Willow lets out a shaky breath, her eyes locked onto mine, searching for something—doubt, uncertainty, hesitation—but she won’t find it. I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.
Then, just when I think she’s about to say no again, her expression changes. Her walls crumble. And in the next breath, she moves.
I barely have time to react before she throws herself onto my lap, her arms wrapping around my neck, her body pressing into mine. A sharp gasp escapes her lips—maybe from the sheer recklessness of what she’s doing, or maybe because I let out a deep, almost pained groan when she lands against me.
I don’t care if it hurts. I don’t care about anything except the way her lips crash into mine, desperate, demanding, full of the passion we’ve both been holding back for too damn long.
I fist my hands in her shirt, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until I can’t tell where I end and she begins. She tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ll ever need.
When she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against mine, we’re both breathing hard, our chests rising and falling in sync.
“Yes,” she whispers, her lips brushing against mine as she speaks. “Yes, Vincent. I’ll marry you.”
A slow, satisfied grin spreads across my face. “Damn right you will.”
She lets out a soft laugh, her fingers threading through my hair.
I lean back slightly, just enough to take her in—to memorize the way she looks in this moment, flushed, breathless, mine.
“Mrs. Beaumont,” I murmur, savoring the way it sounds. The way it feels.
Her breath catches, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Say it again.”
I smirk, dragging my lips across her jaw, up to her ear. “Mrs. Beaumont.”
She shudders, and I know in that moment—this woman, my woman, is never getting away from me. I lean in closer to Willow, my lips hovering just above hers. The tension between us thickens, and for a moment, all I can think about is how good it feels to have her like this, completely and utterly mine. Just as I’m about to whisper Mrs. Beaumont again, a sound breaks the moment. The door creaks open, and I groan internally.
“Really?” I mutter under my breath, irritation sparking.
Damien’s voice rings out, smooth and cool, though I catch the undertone of a sardonic nature.“Damn, you two need a room.”
I roll my eyes and pull back, my body already stiffening in annoyance. “We did, someone walked into it.”
Damien stands in the doorway, his usual unreadable expression as stone-faced as ever. Cast who is standing next to him, however, doesn’t seem to care that he’s interrupting anything. He steps forward like this is just another casual drop-in, as if I wasn’t just about to make things official with Willow.
He glances at her, and then the words slip from his mouth with a finality that hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Willow,” Cast says, his tone shifting from teasing to a grim nature. “Your mother… she’s dying.”