16. Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
~ZED~
Seven o’clock in the morning, and the world outside the window is nothing but blinding yellow sunlight.
Inside, her bedroom is warm, thick with the quiet, rhythmic sound of Lilly’s soft breathing and the lingering scent of the shower gel I used on both of us last night.
I’m propped up on my elbow, completely still, just watching her sleep.
The second I carried her out of the shower last night, her body had gone limp against me, entirely drained by what I’d put her through.
I’d been meticulous in the bathroom, keeping my hands gentle when I washed her, careful not to get her hair wet.
After I tucked her into the sheets, I took a fast shower, and when I walked back into her room, I couldn’t bring myself to cross the threshold again.
The thought of getting dressed and slipping out before the sun came up had tasted fucking sour the moment it formed.
A standard, rational protocol. Sure.
But there is no universe where I take Lilly’s virginity and then slip out the back door like some random, bastard who got what he wanted and split.
I’m not a hit-and-run kind of guy. I’m a permanent fixture.
Besides, the honest truth is much simpler.
I flat-out didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be the first thing she saw when her eyes cracked open.
My eyes drop to the leg tangled in the sheet, to the scar I know is underneath, then back to her peaceful face. The urge to pull her against me and kiss it all away is strong, but I force my hands to stay where they are.
Whatever happened to her wasn’t small. And I didn’t know.
Her upper thigh got sliced open, which is already a life-threatening situation in itself, even if it didn’t hit her femoral artery. Doctors managed to stop the bleeding and stitch it up, and her skin healed.
And she survived it. Yet… I know it’s ugly. It was immediate, as if she’d rehearsed the sentence and already knew what my reaction was supposed to be.
My jaw tightens.
Nobody develops that kind of shame alone. Somewhere along the line, somebody looked at that scar and taught her to expect rejection. Somebody taught her that revealing her scar leads to disgust.
I would very much like a name.
And an address.
A low, heavy sigh expands my chest as I shift slightly on the mattress.
I stretch out my limbs and instantly feel the rigid, unyielding ache of my morning wood straining against my boxers.
It’s thick, hard, and pulsing with a stubborn, immediate heat—a reaction to the simple sight of her bare shoulder peeking out from the blankets.
Looking at her now, soft and entirely peaceful, makes the hunger claw at my throat all over again.
I close my eyes for a beat, letting the thrumming ache settle, forcing my self-control to lock back into place. I’m not going to wake her up by forcing her to take my cock again when she can barely move.
With agonizing slowness, I begin to move.
I carefully slide my weight off the edge of the mattress, minimizing the squeak of the springs.
I step onto the floor without making a sound, my feet sinking into the rug as I stand over the bed.
When I straighten beside it, I reach back and tug the sheet a little higher over her shoulder.
By the time I pull my black boots on and grab my car keys and phone from the nightstand, the sun has shifted a little higher. I slip out of her bedroom, pulling the door shut behind me until it clicks.
As I walk downstairs, the reality of her world greets me.
Last night, I’d been so hyper-focused on hunting her down that I hadn't paid attention to anything else. But now, in the warm light of the early morning, I actually have the chance to look at her space. The house is completely full of her. There isn’t a single corner that doesn’t scream Lilly.
It’s packed with personality—strange little trinkets, colorful decorations that look like she DIY’d them herself, and framed prints.
I catch my reflection in a squiggly mirror hanging on the wall, looking completely wrong standing in the middle of it.
I walk toward the bookshelf in the corner of the living room, running a fingertip along the pastel spines. I let out a low, rough chuckle under my breath as I read the titles and a couple of blurbs.
Romance.
Cheesy, fluffy, good-guy romances. I couldn’t be further from the men in these pages if I tried.
Moving past the bookshelf, I walk further into the living room, my boots making a faint, heavy thud against the hardwood. The whole place is an explosion of color, but my eyes are instantly drawn to the accent wall behind her couch.
It’s completely covered in framed photos surrounding a long wooden shelf.
My interest is piqued instantly. I step closer, eating up the distance until I’m standing right in front of the display. I narrow my eyes, studying the metal and marble structures, and then look down at the photographs surrounding them.
It takes me less than five seconds to process what I’m looking at.
Trophies upon trophies. Awards for first place, regional championships, national placements.
And the photos are all of Lilly on the ice.
She’s wearing glittering, elaborate skating dresses, her hair slicked back into perfect buns, a brilliant, blinding smile on her face as she holds up medals.
I’d already suspected it.
I’ve watched the way she moves on the ice with so much effortless grace, the perfect center of gravity, the innate, muscle-memory precision of her skates. But seeing this solidifies it.
She used to be a professional figure skater. And I’m emphasizing used to.
I trace the dates on the trophies, my eyes darkening as I realize the timeline. The awards are consistent, year after year, a nonstop streak of dominance until exactly three years ago. After that, the shelf goes completely cold. The photos stop. The medals disappear.
I stand there for a long time, staring at the last photo taken of her on the ice, her bright eyes looking straight into the camera.
A heavy protective instinct rears its head in my chest, making my pulse hum with a sudden, dark gravity. A girl doesn't just walk away from a trophy shelf like this. She doesn't just quit when she’s at the absolute top of her game.
It would've taken thirty seconds to Google her, and my hands have been itching to do it from the moment I got her name, but I’ve resisted the urge.
I've got thousands of articles about me online written by people who’ve never had a conversation with me. Half of them can’t agree on what kind of asshole I am or what kind of crime I should be locked up for.
So, no.
I’m not building Lilly out of somebody else’s version of her. I want to know from the source. And I want her to trust me enough to tell me.
I look back at the final trophy from three years ago. Whatever happened to end her career, whatever took her off the ice, has everything to do with that scar.
Three years is long enough to know something’s over. Short enough that it still probably hurts every time she walks past this wall. And she kept it. Didn’t box it up. She left it right here in the middle of the room where she has to look at it.
I wander into the kitchen, the floorboards silent beneath the soles of my boots. My eyes instantly scan the space, landing on the sink. There are a couple of plates and a glass. I start opening the lower cabinets, searching for a dishwasher, but the kitchen is old, so no machine.
A low grunt escapes my chest as I turn on the tap.
If anyone told me yesterday I’d be standing in a girl’s kitchen at seven something in the morning, scrubbing her plates by hand, I would’ve laughed. But after last night, the least I can do is clear the space for her. I wash the dishes and stack them neatly on the drying rack.
When I’m done, I tie up her overfilled trash bag. I haul it out the front door, stepping into the morning air to dump it in the bin at the side of the house. The plastic lid bangs shut, the loud noise cutting through the quiet morning.
“Oh. Good morning.”
I pause and slowly turn my head. Standing by the property line is a middle-aged woman in a bathrobe, holding a coffee mug.
She’s staring at me, her eyes darting from the tattoos climbing up my arms to Lilly’s house, her expression a mix of blatant suspicion and deep concern.
She looks like she’s two seconds away from dialing 911.
“Good morning,” I rumble. “Can I help you with something?”
The woman flinches slightly, clutching her coffee mug a little tighter against her chest.
“Uh... No, I—well, I don’t usually see men at this house.” She gives me an awkward, self-conscious smile, trying to smooth over her nosiness. “Lilly never brings anyone home. Not since that blond guy...”
Every muscle in my body turns to stone.
Blond guy.
Who the fuck is blond guy?
The words hit my brain like a gasoline match, a blinding spike of territorial heat flaring in my chest. I force the savage, homicidal curl of my thoughts back down into the dark.
Whoever the fuck he was, he wasn’t important enough for Lilly to give herself to.
And based on what the neighbor just said, Lilly hasn’t let a man near this house since.
Still.
I don’t like that ‘blond guy’ exists.
I look the nosy neighbor dead in the eye, my voice utterly absolute as I stake my claim.
“I’m Lilly’s boyfriend,” I tell her.
I like the shape of it in my mouth. I like how easy it is to say. I like planting it in the neighborhood like a flag.
The woman’s suspicious expression melts, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise.
“Oh! Well, I’m so glad Lilly finally found someone. She’s such a lovely girl. She deserves someone good.”
I nod like I belong in that category.
“Yeah,” I agree, giving her a short, tight nod as I slide my hands into my pockets. “She does.”
“Well, you have a good day now,” she says, waving awkwardly before she scurries back toward her own porch.