Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Barret
Cloud-thick afternoon softens the room; rain light turns the windows pewter and the floorboards silver while the Pacific presses pale against the glass. Eddie and Cleo are wrapped around each other—her fingers in his hair, his hands at her waist—looking at each other as if the answer just clicked.
“You left me with the wolves,” I joke.
Which to be honest is a good thing because this might help a lot when they officially find the body of some woman adrift in the last place they saw Cleo.
I’m not looking forward to it. I guess it was worth it to be the escape goat that had to deal with the Wilder brothers.
Not sure why Eddie left me to do his dirty work, but whatever.
“Her brothers don’t want to leave until everything is out,” I add, cutting straight through the soft-focus moment they’re having because this seems to have precedent. “They’re set on staying.”
Cleo eases back from him, sighs like she just dropped something fragile inside her chest.
“Why?” she asks, voice low.
“Fuck,” Eddie mutters, cutting a glare my way like I invented this problem myself.
I lift both hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Then I make a show of examining my arms, twisting them around for inspection. “No bite marks. No claw wounds. Miraculous, really, considering the bunch you left me with.”
Neither of them laughs.
“You’re welcome, by the way for taking care of the Wilders,” I add, dry. “You should be grateful that your man came back in one piece. Not that I see either of you giving a shit about my survival.”
Eddie waves it off, smirking like I’m entertainment. “I knew you’d manage. They won’t go full detonation-mode with their little sister in the house.”
“Right,” I deadpan. “That’s the safety net—dating the sister makes me a walking target, but her being present turns their murder setting down to simmer instead of boil.” I glance between them. “Point is, you might not be able to kick them out, boss man.”
Eddie’s jaw ticks. He drags a hand over his face, shoulders taut as he stares at the glass like the upcoming storm outside has the answer he’s looking for.
“We need grieving family out there,” he says, and his usual iron calm thins.
Cleo’s mouth pinches. “I don’t want them grieving me.”
“They’re not grieving you,” I remind her. “They’re grieving the headline. Different beast, princess.” I hold her gaze until some of the panic loosens from her shoulders.
“It’ll look wrong if they’re gone when this hits,” Eddie murmurs, half to himself.
“We can put out something bland, professional,” I say, but my voice dips, recognizing how fucked this is.
“A statement that buys space. Says something like—‘The Wilder family is requesting privacy and will not be available for interviews at this time. They appreciate the public’s understanding and ask that everyone respect the family’s space while authorities complete their work. ’”
The words feel hollow the second I say them. Like I’m narrating a funeral that hasn't happened, like I’m helping bury her before she’s even had a chance to live again.
Cleo takes a careful breath. Eddie’s thumb moves over her wrist, as if saying without words: I’m here.
“If you want them gone, they’re gone,” I tell her and Eddie nods. Then, I add, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t feel like doing—including being around more stress.”
“We’ll step back,” Eddie assures her.
She looks from him to me like she’s measuring something only she can see. “I don’t want distance from either one of you.”
Eddie’s eyes flick to mine, then settle back on her. His voice scrapes a little when he speaks. “Good. Because I’m not interested in being the breath between storms. I want this. I want us. Now. After everything. After you finally admitted you love us.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m . . .” she starts, but doesn’t finish.
“Princess,” Eddie says, soft now. No edge. “We go at your pace.”
She nods once, then—like it catches her by surprise—her mouth twists with something between guilt and grief.
“I’m still so fucking broken,” she says, a whisper wrapped in shame. “I’m not sure when I’ll be okay. Or if I ever will be. The nightmares. The fear. It just—” She exhales shakily, doesn’t finish.
Eddie shifts closer. His fingers curl around her hand.
“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” he says, low, like it’s something sacred. “But the nightmares don’t come every night anymore. And when they do—you talk. You wake up and let one of us hold you instead of pretending you’re fine.”
Her eyes find his.
“You’re more open,” he continues. “You let us in now. Even when it’s dark.”
She blinks like she doesn’t trust herself to believe it.
“And you haven’t flinched in days,” I add, gentler than I ever get credit for. “You let us close. You stay. That’s something, Cleo.”
A silence settles. Not cold. Not distant. It hums with everything none of us are sure how to say.
Finally, she nods. Not all the way. Just enough.
“I want to believe I can be okay,” she says. “With you.”
Eddie presses his forehead to hers. “Then we’ll believe it for you until you can.”
She swallows. Her eyes don’t meet ours. “Then why does it feel like I’ve already disappeared?”
My chest pulls like something’s trying to crawl out of it.
I reach for her. Not fast. Not with force. Just enough to give her the option to lean. She does.
“You didn’t disappear, Cleo,” I murmur as I pull her in, my arms wrapping around her like I can shield her from all of it—the headlines, the false grief, the brother-shaped pressure outside.
“You’re right here. In my arms. Breathing.
Shaking. Fighting. That’s more real than anything they’ll printing. ”
She presses her forehead into my collarbone. Her hands don’t move at first, like she doesn’t trust herself to hold on. So I do it for her. I hold tighter.
“I don’t feel strong,” she whispers.
“You don’t have to feel it,” I say, brushing her hair back, letting my thumb trail behind her ear. “You are. That’s not up for debate.”
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“It is,” I answer, quiet and sure. “To me, it’s that simple. You survived. You walked back into this mess when you could’ve vanished forever. That’s strength.”
She finally lifts her head. Her eyes shimmer—not with tears, not yet. But close.
“And what if I fall apart again?”
“Then I’ll be there to help you pick up the pieces.” I smile, just a little, just for her. “And so will Eddie. We’ll hold them with you. We’ll wait as long as it takes.”
Her bottom lip trembles. She bites it down.
“Barret—”
“I love you,” I say, because this moment demands it.
Because if she’s going to feel like she’s fading, she needs something solid to anchor her back—and I refuse to let it be fear.
“I’m in this. Not just for the safe parts, Cleo.
For the scars and the doubt and the dark corners you don’t show anyone. I want all of it.”
Her breath hitches. Her hand curls into my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
“You—you mean that?”
“Every fucking word.”
Behind me, Eddie doesn’t speak. But when I glance at him, he nods once. Firm. Fierce.
“I love you too,” she says. Barely above a breath. Then again, louder. Like she’s choosing it. Like she’s daring the world to hear her. “I love you both.”
I press my forehead to hers, eyes closed. There’s nothing left to hide. Nothing left to pretend.
“Then we’re here,” I whisper. “All the way. No turning back.”
My hands find her face, slow and reverent. Thumbs brushing beneath her big brown eyes like I could erase the pain left there by all the things she’s endured. Not to fix her—but to let her know she’s seen. Held. Worthy of softness, even after everything.
“C’mere,” I whisper.
She tilts her face toward mine, breath catching just before our mouths meet.
The kiss starts like a question. Gentle.
Searching. Her lips are soft, almost shy, like she’s still testing if she’s allowed this moment.
I answer with a kiss that says yes. Yes, you are.
Yes, I’m here. Yes, this is us—forever if you want.
Because nothing has changed since the first moment I kissed her. Well, that’s a lie. I love her even more and that love will grow with time.
My hands slide down to her jaw, then trace the delicate line of her neck, anchoring her to me. I kiss her deeper, slower, like I’m trying to memorize every curve of her mouth. Every hesitant press. Every inhale.
She tastes like the storm outside—like rain waiting to fall, like grief and hope wrapped up in one fragile, precious thing I will never take for granted.
My fingers drift into her hair, threading through the strands, not to possess her—but to feel that she’s here.
That she’s real and warm and alive against me.
My palm settles at the base of her skull, cradling her, while my other hand glides down her back.
She shudders when my thumb traces along her spine, a sound catching in her throat.
I press in, deepen the kiss—not with urgency, but with need.
With everything I’ve buried. The ache of watching her suffer.
The nights I stared at my phone, wondering if she was breathing.
The helpless rage I swallowed when Eddie told me where she was.
All of it comes out through my mouth against hers. No words. Just this.
She moans softly, her fingers tightening in my shirt, pulling me closer like she wants to crawl inside my ribs and stay there.
I kiss her again. And again. Slower this time, until our breaths come in tandem. Until the world stops spinning. Until it’s just her lips beneath mine, trembling but sure. Until she melts in my arms like she’s finally letting go.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers again, both of us breathing hard, her hands still gripping me like the kiss wasn’t enough. Like it never will be.
“You’re not lost,” I murmur. “You’re home.”