Chapter 45
PARKER
Ican’t sleep.
The house is quiet—too quiet despite having four other people in it.
Jace is asleep on my bed with Liam curled into his side, both of them finally peaceful after hours of Liam asking questions to keep himself from closing his eyes.
Cal is on the other side, Noah wrapped around him like a koala.
It was adorable watching my son’s grip tighten every time Cal tried to lay him down earlier.
Cal eventually gave up and settled in with Noah plastered to his chest.
It’s a sight I never thought I’d see.
Never thought I’d experience.
Three men I love, scattered across my bed with my children, all of them finally sleeping after the worst day any of us have had in recent memory.
But Silas isn’t here.
And I can’t sleep until he is.
I’ve been sitting in the armchair by the window for the past hour, watching the driveway, waiting for headlights that haven’t come. My phone is in my hand, no new messages since Cal texted me two hours ago that Silas was finishing up and would be home soon.
Home.
When did that happen? When did my guest house—the one next door to the guest house where Silas, Cal, and Jace live on the Carter estate—become home for all of us? When did we stop being separate households and become... this?
A family.
The thought makes my chest tight with something that feels like hope and terror in equal measure.
Movement catches my eye. Next door, the garage bay door is opening, the automatic light clicking on to reveal—
Silas’s motorcycle.
Relief floods through me so intense it makes my knees weak.
He’s home. He’s safe. He’s—
I slip out of my bedroom before dawn’s pale light can wake anyone, padding barefoot across cool hardwood and pushing the front door open with a soft click.
The night air washes over me—crisp, faintly scented with dew and distant honeysuckle—and I shiver in nothing more than faded sleep shorts and a thin tank top.
I don’t pause. I need him. To see that he’s alive, that he’s brought himself home safe and whole.
Across the narrow strip of lawn—blades damp underfoot—I cross into the garage’s glow just as Silas swings his leg off the motorcycle.
The machine’s engine ticks as it cools, metal still warm beneath his fingers.
He catches his helmet in one hand, his shoulders rigid, every movement deliberate and weighed down.
In the harsh white light I spot the dark red stain spreading across his shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin.
His hair, damp at the nape of his neck, falls in damp strands.
“Silas,” I murmur, voice barely louder than a breeze.
He turns. Even under fluorescent tubes, his face looks hollowed-out—eyes rimmed with shadows, storm-grey and distant. He hits the button to close the garage door, and with a soft mechanical hum the world dims to darkness broken only by the motorcycle’s red display.
I step in before the door seals shut. The overhead light clicks off, plunging us into a twilight of steel and oil. The faint scent of gasoline curls through the air, mingling with the sharp tang of his blood. I wait for my eyes to adjust, then move toward him, my bare feet whispering over concrete.
“Parker,” he says—his voice rough, ragged as torn fabric. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be inside with the boys.”
“They’re asleep with Jace and Cal,” I reply, voice soft as moth wings. “I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out there.”
He breathes in, a slow, tortured sigh. The scent of him rises—warm leather, sweat, something raw and aching underneath.
He steps closer; I feel the heat radiate off his body.
My fingers reach out, brushing against the ridges of his chest. He stands still, as if I’ve unspooled every tight coil inside him.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, voice catching. My palms press to the bruised warmth of him, feeling the rapid thud of his heart, as I catch sight of the blood splattered all over him.
He grips my hands against him.
“No,” he rasps. “Not mine.”
“Diego?” I whisper.
“Handled.” His words land flat, like stones thrown into dark water. “Not a problem anymore. We got what we needed—names, locations. Ryan and Aria’s network is exposed. We can finish this.”
A rush of relief floods me. Whoever sent those men after our children will pay. I nod, though he can’t see. “Good.”
His hands leave mine and settle at my waist, pulling me flush to him. The cold of the garage vanishes. “You really shouldn’t be out here, firefly. It’s late, and you’re barefoot.”
“I don’t care.”
He hesitates. His chest rises and falls, his breath thick. In the dark, I lift my hands to frame his face, tracing the angle of his jaw, the bruise under his eye. “Don’t push me away. Don’t decide I can’t handle what you did tonight. I know—every brutal choice you made. And I’m still here.”
Silence hangs between us until his forehead drops to mine. I feel the tremor through his bones—exhaustion, adrenaline finally giving out, grief for what he’s done.
“They tried to hurt our kids,” he murmurs. “And I wanted—God, Parker, I wanted to make him pay.”
I stroke his cheek. The stubble is rough under my fingertips. “You did what you had to. It’s done. He can’t hurt them again.”
He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. Then his lips crash into mine—a fierce collision of guilt and need. His mouth tastes of metal and smoke, but it’s home. I press back, nails catching in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left.
His jacket falls to the floor with a thud. I shrug out of mine, heart pounding as I bare my skin to him. He groans low in his throat, hands sliding under my tank top, mapping the curves and planes of me by touch.
“Parker,” he breathes, half plea, half warning.
“I need you,” I whisper, tugging my tank top overhead and tossing it aside into the shadows. “Please.”
He curves around me, every movement charged.
I feel the hard length of him pressing against me, and when he finds my center, a thrill of warmth blossoms between my legs.
The cold concrete floor presses against my back, but his body vaults over me, shielding me from the chill.
His mouth trails from my neck to my collarbone, each kiss a promise and an absolution.
He moves inside me with one slow, intentional thrust—enough to take my breath away.
I arch against him, fingers sinking into his shoulders.
He holds still for a moment, as if drawing strength from our closeness, then begins to move.
First deliberate and precise, his hips rocking in measured strokes, letting me feel every inch.
Then, as need overtakes restraint, his pace quickens—each thrust heavier, angrier, as though he’s driving his vengeance into every backward pull.
The concrete cold against my spine, the darkness encasing us, heightens every sensation: the slick friction, the faint scrape of metal beneath me, the echo of our breaths in the empty garage. He grips my hips, guiding me, grounding me to him.
But suddenly he stills. His voice, when he speaks, is a broken whisper. “Not here. Not on the ground.”
Before I can answer, he lifts me clear, breath warm on my ear. I gasp as the world shifts beneath us, and then I’m lowered onto something solid and curved. A shiver races through me as cold steel presses into the small of my back. His bike.
The engine’s gearshift digs into me, a delicious sting.
He straddles me, thighs tight against mine, and locks the brake so the bike won’t roll.
One hand reaches up to cradle my throat—gentle enough that I still breathe, firm enough that I can’t pull away.
The other settles on my hip, anchoring us both.
“Ride me,” he commands, voice husky with edge and velvet heat.
I slide down onto him, adjusting until his length fills me.
The metal presses through my tank top and shorts, a contrast to the fire he ignites inside me.
I lean back, pressing my palms against his forearms, and begin to move—slow at first, savoring the stretch and the metallic press against my flesh.
Then faster, deeper, each tilt of my hips coaxing a low growl from his throat.
He holds me close with that unwavering grip at my throat, setting a pace that’s devotion and desperation entwined.
The narrow seat shifts under us, clattering softly against the concrete as we find our rhythm.
My hair falls over his shoulder, catching the faint red glow of the dash display.
I taste him in every breath: musk, blood, adrenaline.
His hand leaves my throat to find my breast, fingers brushing a path of heat up to my collarbone. I arch, neon sparks dancing in my mind as my world narrows to the curve of his jaw leaning into my neck, the press of his chest to mine, the intoxicating scrape of metal through cloth.
“God, Parker,” he rasps, “you drive me insane.”
He catches my hip and spins me forward, flipping me off the seat so my belly presses against the bike’s leather saddle.
My palms slide to the handlebars for balance, knuckles white.
His callused fingers ghost over my spine, down to cup my hips before that same fierce length of him finds me again.
He guides the next slide in, slow and grounded, a devasting contrast to the pounding of my pulse.
I cling to the bike, to him, my breath coming in ragged bursts as pleasure and pain fuse into one.
The sharp edge of the gear lever against my thighs, the hollow hum of the garage around us—every sense sharpened.
He holds me there, his palm brushing my clit in tight, indelible circles until I quake, a soft cry slipping from me.
When I come, it crashes through me like thunder, and he follows—deep inside me, body shuddering, voice raw as he spills into me. For a moment we’re suspended together in the dark, riding out a storm of our own making.
When our breaths level, he gathers me up in his arms again, sliding me back onto the seat facing him.
His jacket—once discarded, now a shield—wraps around us both as he folds me against his chest. The bike’s cool metal beneath us and his heartbeat beneath my ear anchor me to this fierce ease of safety and surrender.
His lips brush my forehead. “You came out here for me,” he whispers, voice trembling. “And I came home for you.”