Chapter 23 Under My Skin
Under My Skin
Langston
She’s curled against me like she belongs here.
Sabrina’s tucked into my chest, one arm slung across my ribs, her hair spread over my shoulder like a spill of fire. Her breathing is slow now—deep, even—the kind of sleep that only comes when someone feels safe enough to let go.
I stare at the ceiling, one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other resting at her back, fingers splayed like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I loosen my hold.
Tonight went better than I expected.
I’d been ready for her to get overwhelmed—to retreat, to go quiet, to put up walls. Instead, she laughed. She teased Nathan. She listened to Harvey like his words mattered. She let the twins climb all over her like they’d known her forever.
She fit.
And watching her do it had done something dangerous to me.
A soft ding breaks the quiet.
I freeze.
Sabrina doesn’t stir, just snuggles closer, her nose brushing my chest. I wait a few seconds before carefully reaching for my phone on the nightstand, angling the screen away from her face.
John:
Call me when you can. I have what you asked for.
My jaw tightens.
I ease out from under her slowly, replacing my warmth with a pillow, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before I stand. She shifts but doesn’t wake.
Good.
I step into my office down the hall and close the door softly behind me before dialing.
John answers immediately. “Langston.”
“Talk,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t waste time. “Sabrina Kensington walked away from her family’s money years ago. Trust fund, accounts, properties—she signed off on all of it. Took a modest settlement when her mother passed and moved out on her own.”
That tracks.
“She didn’t want anything tied to her father’s name,” John continues. “After her mother died, she stepped away from the public life he’d built around the family. No galas. No press. No social circuit.”
I lean back against the desk, eyes closing briefly.
That explains the waitress job. The independence. The pride.
“Tell me about Elliott Cavanaugh,” I say.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Just long enough to irritate me.
“They dated briefly,” John admits. “Right before Sabrina moved to Chicago.”
My hand tightens around the phone. “Briefly how?”
“Couple of months,” he says. “Nothing official by public standards.”
I can hear it now—the hesitation. The thing he isn’t saying.
“John,” I warn. “Don’t filter.”
Another pause.
“They were photographed together,” he finally says. “The day before she left. They looked… happy. Close. Comfortable.”
Something cold twists in my chest.
“And then?” I ask.
“And then she packed up and moved across the country,” John finishes. “Went completely no contact. No explanation. No goodbye. By all accounts, it blindsided him.”
I breathe through my nose, jaw locked so tight it aches.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“No signs of abuse. No police reports. No legal trouble.” John hesitates. “But people don’t disappear like that without a reason.”
“No,” I say quietly. “They don’t.”
We end the call shortly after.
When I step back into the bedroom, I stop in the doorway.
Sabrina’s sprawled slightly now, one leg tangled in the sheets, my pillow hugged tight to her chest like she knows it’s mine. Her face is relaxed, peaceful. Soft.
Nothing about her says runner.
I lean against the frame, watching her sleep, and something dark coils low in my gut.
What did he do?
What happened in that space between happy and gone that made her cut all ties and flee?
My hand curls into a fist at my side, heat rushing through my veins at the thought of Elliott Cavanaugh being anywhere near her again.
I don’t care what his intentions are now.
He’s a problem.
And problems that threaten my wife don’t get second chances.
I cross the room quietly and slip back into bed, pulling Sabrina into my arms again. She sighs in her sleep, fitting against me like she was made to.
I press my mouth to her hair, breathing her in.
Whatever drove her to run before—
She’s not running now.
And I’ll make damn sure no one ever gives her a reason to again.
I wake before the sun.
It’s not unusual—I’ve been wired this way for years—but this time, it isn’t the day pulling me up. It’s the weight beside me. The warmth of Sabrina curled into my side, her hair across my chest, her breathing slow and steady like she trusts the world not to take anything from her while she sleeps.
That thought sits heavy.
I slide out of bed quietly, tug on gym shorts and a T-shirt, and head downstairs. The house is still, the kind of quiet that usually settles me. I start the coffee first—muscle memory—and watch it drip into the pot, already knowing how she takes it because I pay attention. Too much attention.
That’s the problem.
I don’t like not knowing.
I don’t like the unanswered space around why she ran. What happened between happy and gone. I don’t like that another man touched her life deeply enough to leave marks I can’t see.
And I really don’t like how much it matters.
This marriage was supposed to be simple. Strategic. A means to an end.
Make my family happy.
Strengthen the business.
Do my duty and move on.
Instead, I’m standing in my kitchen at dawn making coffee for my wife and thinking about whether she’ll smile when she smells it.
I head to the basement gym before the thoughts spiral any further.
The lights snap on. Cold concrete. Steel. Control.
I crank the music until it fills the space—Green Day first, loud and sharp, the kind of sound that takes me straight back to being younger and angrier and certain that discipline could fix everything.
I hit the treadmill hard.
My legs pump faster than necessary. Breath comes heavy. The beat shifts—All American Rejects, Good Charlotte, all the 90s punk-pop classics that burn through my chest and shake loose the things I don’t want to feel.
I run harder.
Because I hate that I want to know what makes Sabrina happy more than I want to protect the plan.
I hate that I’m losing control over my own damn emotions.
I hate that when I picture the future, it isn’t contracts and expansion—it’s her laughing in my kitchen, her notes spread across my desk, her voice in my house like it’s always belonged there.
The pace climbs.
My lungs burn. Sweat drips down my spine. My heart slams against my ribs until it feels like it might break through.
Then—A sound. Soft. Out of place. I glance up.
Sabrina stands in the doorway.
She’s wearing a dark blue pajama set—soft cotton clinging to curves I shouldn’t be staring at right now. The color makes her skin look impossibly pale, her red hair piled messily on top of her head like she didn’t bother taming it before coming down here.
Her arms are crossed. Her brow is furrowed. She’s staring at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.
I slow the treadmill, breath still ragged, chest heaving. “Morning,” I manage.
She tilts her head. “Do you always try to run yourself to death before breakfast?”
Something about the way she says it—concern threaded through sarcasm—hits me square in the chest.
I step off the machine, wipe my face with a towel, and shrug. “Helps me think.”
She snorts softly. “That explains a lot.”
I smile despite myself.
Because there she is. In my house. In my space. Looking at me like she cares whether I make it through the morning.
And that?
That’s the most dangerous thing of all.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Not because I’m in a hurry—but because if I stay near her any longer, I won’t be able to pull myself back together.
The gym did nothing except remind me how deeply she’s already under my skin. The way she looked at me standing there in the doorway—sleep-soft, concerned, real—nearly cracked something open that I don’t know how to close again.
I need distance.
It’s the only way I know how to regain control.
The shower is hot, punishing. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, hands braced against the tile, letting the water beat down on my neck as I force my thoughts into clean, orderly lines.
One year.
She’s said it more than once. Casually. Like it’s a fact she’s already accepted.
I’ll do a year.
She didn’t say forever.
She didn’t say us.
And I can’t—won’t—leave my heart on the line when she’s already halfway out the door. Especially not when I know she’s done it before. Packed up. Disappeared. Left without explanation.
I dry off, dress with mechanical precision, and pull my phone from the counter.
Me:
I’ll be in today. Full schedule.
Jack responds almost instantly.
Jack:
Thought you were off. Everything okay?
Me:
Fine.
It’s a lie. But it’s one I’m good at.
By the time I get downstairs, she’s already set breakfast out—coffee poured, plates warm. She’s sitting at the island, watching me too closely.
“You okay?” she asks gently.
“I’m heading into the office,” I say instead, grabbing my mug.
Her brows lift. “I thought you were taking today off.”
“I was.”
She hesitates. “Then… what am I supposed to do?”
The question hits me wrong. Too vulnerable. Too open. Like she’s expecting something from me that I don’t know how to give without losing ground.
I snap before I can stop myself.
“Whatever you did before you were tied to me.”
The words hang there—sharp, ugly.
She stares at me for half a second… and then laughs.
Not offended. Not hurt.
Just amused.
“Okay,” she says simply, lifting her mug. “I can do that.”
Guilt slams into me immediately.
I set my coffee down and step closer, reaching for her without thinking. My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing the line of her jaw as I look down at her.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m stressed. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
Her expression softens, concern replacing humor. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do,” I insist.
I lean down and kiss her—gentle, brief, restrained. The kind of kiss that says I care without opening the door any wider than it already is.
“I’ll see you later,” I murmur against her lips.
She nods, eyes searching mine like she knows I’m pulling away.
And that makes it harder than anything else.
I grab my keys and leave before I can change my mind—before I can stay, before I can want too much.
Because wanting her already feels dangerous.
And losing control feels worse.