Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Eddie
They’re still wrapped around each other, Cleo and Barret. And yet—I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in. I feel it—through them. That love. That ache. That exhale of finally.
It’s not something I’m watching.
It’s something I’m in.
That’s how it’s always been between us.
Even when we didn’t know how to say it.
Even when our hands never touched at the same time.
Even when our hearts beat out of sync.
This thing—we never gave it a name. But it was there. Breathing beneath everything. Lingering in glances that lasted too long, in silences that felt crowded, in the ache when only one of us had to let go.
It was never halves. Never thirds.
Never Barret and Cleo with me trailing behind.
Never me standing on the edge of something I wasn’t allowed to want.
It’s always been the three of us.
Tangled. Unlabeled. Unfolding.
A constellation of feelings that refused to orbit just one star.
We burned in each other’s gravity, and none of us had the words.
But now we do.
Now she’s saying it. Now we’re touching the truth with our mouths and our hands and our confessions.
Love in triplicate—three threads pulling taut in the same direction.
And watching her fall apart into him like that—watching him kiss her with every truth he’s been holding back—it doesn’t make me feel left out. It makes me feel whole. Like something we’ve been holding our breath for is finally here.
She pulls back from Barret slowly, still dazed, lips kissed open, and her eyes find mine like she knew I was waiting. Like she’s been aching for me too.
“I love you,” she breathes, like it costs her something to say it again, like it matters just as much the second time.
I move without thinking, stepping in close until we’re face to face, breaths brushing, her warmth spilling into my chest. I cup her face gently, like I’m afraid to break the moment, like I’ve been waiting to touch her since the second she slipped away from us.
Her skin is flushed, lips still kiss-dazed, and her eyes—God, her eyes—are rimmed with emotion so thick it feels like the air between us might collapse. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
She’s letting me in.
“I know,” I whisper. “And I love you back. I never stopped.”
My thumbs stroke over her cheekbones, and she leans into me like I’m oxygen. She doesn’t even hesitate when I kiss her.
She meets me with equal hunger, fingers digging into my shoulders, pulling me closer like she wants me carved into her bones.
I kiss her deep. She tastes like longing, like pain and hope threaded together.
Her mouth parts for me on a sigh, and I take it slow, so fucking slow, like I’m drinking her in.
I press a hand to her back, sliding it beneath the hem of her shirt just to feel her skin. Her warmth. Her realness.
She’s alive. She’s here. And she’s mine. Ours.
When I finally pull away, I keep her close, foreheads brushing. This kiss was different from the one before and I have to say it: “I’ve wanted to do that since the day you ran.” I press my lips and take a deep breath. “Since the second you disappeared and left this fucking ache behind.”
“I didn’t want to go,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to leave either of you. I just . . . didn’t know how to stay.”
“We know,” Barret says, his hand covering hers where it rests on my chest. “You don’t have to explain.”
She turns slightly, one hand reaching for him without letting go of me. It’s instinct. Muscle memory. Heart memory.
And I realize with stunning clarity—this is what we are now. Not fragments trying to fill gaps, not pieces fumbling to make a whole, but three souls bound in the same breath. Not one of us on the outside looking in, but all of us woven together, holding each other steady in the storm.
Barret leans in, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before brushing one against my jaw too. My breath catches. He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes.
“I love you too,” he says quietly.
Fuck.
I don’t realize how much I needed that until it pours through me like light in a room I thought would stay dark forever. My throat tightens.
“Yeah?” I rasp.
“Yeah.” His hand curls behind my neck. “Always.”
I glance at Cleo, then at Barret, and there’s this quiet that fills the room—not the kind that haunts or unsettles. This one feels earned. Sacred.
It feels like coming home.
But the moment doesn’t last forever—it’s broken by a knock.
“What the fuck is going on in there?” Roderick’s voice hits the wood like a warning. “I swear, if I walk in and my sister—”
I’m already moving. I press a quick kiss to Cleo’s temple, meet Barret’s eyes—later—and cross the room. The door swings open on a wash of rain-dim light and Roderick’s scowl.
“You’re a pain in the ass, Wilder,” I say, leaning on the frame. “All of you.”
He shoulders past the threshold by half an inch, jaw set, gaze cutting over me to where Cleo stands with Barret. His focus snaps back to my face.
“You kept me downstairs waiting.” His voice is low, threaded with too many nights and not enough answers. “Try that again.”
Behind me, Barret’s tone drops. “Back off, Rod.”
Roderick’s nostrils flare. “Don’t ‘Rod’ me. I heard raised voices. I heard—” He takes in Cleo’s flushed mouth, her damp lashes, our closeness that says everything. His expression splinters, not with judgment—just a brother trying to measure if his sister is safe.
“She’s okay,” I say before he can spit more fire. “She’s better with us.”
Cleo steps forward. No retreat, no apology. “I am,” she tells him. “I’m here.”
Roderick drags a hand over his face, anger cooling to something rawer. “I need guarantees.”
“So do we,” Barret answers. “Starting with you not kicking in doors.”
Roderick exhales through his nose. The hall behind him is all damp wool and the hush of people trying to listen without admitting it. Wilder brothers, plural. A whole wall of worry.
“Say it straight,” he grinds out. “What’s the plan? Because the press is chewing on rumors. And if they pull a body out of the Pacific—” His voice tightens. “I won’t have them writing her obituary while she’s breathing.”
“It’ll be from the Atlantic,” Barret corrects him. “Geography was never your strong suit, asshole.”
Roderick glares at him.
“We won’t let them,” I say before they stare bickering. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”
I tip my head toward the room, and after a second’s hesitation, he steps inside.
“You can stay,” I tell him. “All of you. We’re not shoving family out while this breaks.
” I catch Cleo’s eyes. She nods once, small and sure, and it steadies me from the inside.
“But you follow our lead in here. No scenes. No throwing punches because we’re too close or because . . . She sets the pace.”
Roderick looks to Cleo. “Is that what you want?”
She lifts her chin. “Yes.”
He swallows, nods once.
Barret moves beside me, voice even. “When the authorities confirm anything, your PR will release one statement. Clean. Respectful. It says the Wilder family is requesting privacy and won’t be available for interviews.
It asks the public to give space while the investigation concludes. ” He glances at me. I pick it up.
“It buys time,” I add. “Not a lie. A boundary.”
Roderick studies us like he’s weighing the cost of trusting the men who love his sister. His throat works. “And Dorian?”
Barret’s mouth hardens. “We’re handling him.”
Roderick steps closer, face inches from mine like he wants to read truth off my skin. “Handling him isn’t enough.”
“I know,” I say. “We’ll finish it when it’s time. You have to be fucking patient.”
Rain ticks at the window. Cleo’s fingers find mine. Barret’s hand settles at the small of her back. Roderick sees it—the three of us linked—and some of the fight bleeds from his shoulders.
“Fine,” he says at last. “We stay. We keep the statement ready. If they find—” He stops, swallows it down. “If it comes to that, we release it. But you loop me in on Dorian.”
“You’ll be looped,” I say. “But you don’t move without us.”
His mouth twists. “Control freak.”
“Survivor,” I counter. “Pick your label.”
Another beat. The storm outside sighs against the glass.
Roderick turns to his right, raises his voice just enough for the hallway.
“You hear that? We’re staying. Nobody breathes a word to the press.
If anyone asks, the family has no comment.
” Footsteps shuffle. Someone mutters agreement.
He looks back at Cleo. “I might let them live, but I’m not happy about this. ”
Cleo’s eyes soften. “Thank you.”
He nods, then fixes Barret and me with a look that promises both gratitude and hell if we fail. “Make this worth it.”
“It already is,” Barret says.
I crack the door open to let Roderick out. He pauses on the threshold. “And Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“If I hear she cried because of you—”
“She’ll only cry because we held her too close,” I say, no apology in it. “That, I can’t promise to avoid.”
He huffs a rough sound that might be a laugh if the world were kinder, then heads down the hall.
The door clicks shut. The quiet returns, fragile but ours.
Cleo leans into us, her head tipping between my shoulder and Barret’s chest. “You two sure you can handle a house full of Wilders?”
Barret presses a kiss to her hair. “We can handle anything.”
I rest my mouth against her temple, breathing her in. “Especially this.”
Barret’s yes is a low vow against her skin.