Chapter 37
THATCHER
It takes her a minute to start talking, and I don’t rush her.
I just sit there, steady and silent—giving her the space she needs, ready the second she decides to take it.
Because I know something she might not see yet.
This moment right here?
It’s more than a conversation.
It’s a turning point.
A line drawn in the sand between what we were and what we’re about to become.
And fuck, I’ve never been more ready.
“See, I was living in Florida for the past eighteen months. With… with a man.”
My chest tightens instantly.
My jaw locks.
Every ugly, territorial instinct I have slams awake, hot and violent.
I shove it down because this isn’t about me. Not right now.
This is about her.
Still, my fists clench at my sides.
“He was sweet at first,” she continues. “We started dating about two years ago. Six months in, he asked me to move in with him. To leave Jersey. To go to Florida.”
I don’t interrupt. Don’t breathe too loud. I don’t want to spook her.
“My mom encouraged it,” she adds, voice smaller now. “She said I was lucky someone wanted me.”
That lands like a punch.
She was lucky someone wanted her?
I want to burn something to the ground.
“So I went, though I had misgivings,” she finishes quietly, then draws in a deep breath like she’s bracing herself.
I reach out and take her hand—not tight, not possessive.
Just there. Warm. Real.
Letting her know I’m not going anywhere.
“He didn’t hit me,” she says quickly, like she’s afraid of what I’ll think.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Okay.
So maybe I won’t kill him on sight.
But I’m not ruling anything out yet.
“But he did other things,” she continues. “He hated the way I looked. He used to leave notes in the fridge. About what I ate. How much. He started locking the pantry. Only he had the code.”
Something dark and feral rises in my chest.
I don’t stop the sound that rips out of me this time—a low, dangerous growl that surprises even me.
“We opened a joint bank account. All my checks went in. But I never got my debit card. And every time I brought it up, he’d accuse me of being greedy or not trusting him.”
I inhale.
She flinches. Just a little.
And I immediately soften, squeezing her hand gently.
“That son of a bitch,” I mutter.
“It—it sounds stupid now,” she says, tears spilling freely. “The things I let him do. I stayed because I thought… I thought it was what I deserved.”
That does it.
I shift closer, tipping her chin up until she has no choice but to look at me.
My voice is steady, but it’s packed with every ounce of conviction I have.
“Willow, listen to me. You are not stupid. And you didn’t deserve any of that. Not one goddamn second.”
She sobs then, quiet and broken, and every instinct in me screams to pull her into my chest and lock her there forever.
But I don’t rush her.
I let her finish.
Because I need to hear it all.
And because somewhere in the back of my mind, a cold, lethal focus is sharpening around one single thought.
I need that man’s name.
Willow swallows hard, shoulders drawing in on themselves like she’s bracing for impact.
“When I couldn’t take it anymore, I left,” she says.
Just like that.
No drama. No flourish. Just the truth.
My grip tightens on her hand.
“I didn’t plan it,” she goes on. “I didn’t have time. I just waited until he was gone. I packed what I could carry. A backpack. That was it.”
My chest feels too tight to breathe.
“My mom didn’t approve,” she adds, voice cracking. “She said I was being dramatic. That I was throwing away a ‘good thing.’ She told me to go back. To apologize.”
I see red.
Not a flash. Not a flare.
A slow, consuming burn.
“But I didn’t,” Willow says. There’s something steadier in her voice now. Stronger. “I left anyway.”
“Good,” I say, unable to help myself.
Goddamn good.
“I didn’t have much money,” she continues. “Just a few hundred dollars I’d pulled out in cash over time. I knew if I used cards, he’d track me. So I drove. And drove. And when I got here, I needed a job. I needed somewhere to sleep. Somewhere he couldn’t find me.”
Her fingers curl into mine like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“That’s why I asked about the cabin. Why I said yes so fast. I wasn’t trying to take advantage of anything. I just, I didn’t have anywhere else.”
The room goes very quiet.
I don’t let go of her hand. I don’t interrupt.
But inside me, something fundamental shifts.
She didn’t run because she was weak.
She ran because she was strong enough to choose herself with nothing but fear and a few crumpled bills in her pocket.
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” I say, my voice low, rough, final. “You got out. And you came exactly where you’re meant to be.”
Her eyes shimmer, filling again, and I see the conflict warring in her—guilt, shame, hope, fear.
“I don’t want you to think I’m here because I owe you something,” she whispers, her voice so small it guts me. “That I spent the night with you out of gratitude or—God—guilt.”
I shake my head immediately.
“Baby. No.”
I bring her hand to my lips, kiss her knuckles slow.
Not a seduction—something deeper.
A vow I haven’t quite put into words yet.
“I know why you were with me last night,” I murmur against her skin. “You wanted me. Just like I wanted you. Just like I want you still. Tell me you do,” I whisper.
Her eyes darken.
“I do. I want you, Thatcher.”
She nods, eyes wide, and I feel my chest loosen just enough so I can breathe again.
But there’s more. I can see it in the way her throat bobs when she swallows, in how her fingers tremble against mine even though she’s trying to stay strong.
“Look, I know this is way too much information,” she says, voice shaky. “And it’s moving way too fast—”
“No. Not for me.”
I shake my head and lean in just slightly, grounding her with my voice. “I want to hear all of it, Baby Girl. Every word.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “It’s just, I—I’m not some… some scheming little nobody, Thatcher. I swear I’m not using you.”
The words come out fast, rushed, like she’s trying to get them past the wall of shame she’s been dragging behind her for years.
“Willow,” I chide, but she shakes her head and I pause, allowing her to finish.
“I have my own money. I mean… I have a savings account. It’s from my father’s life insurance policy. He passed when I was a teenager, and I was the sole beneficiary. It went into a trust until I turned thirty. That was just this year—”
That gets me.
I blink. Something in my chest goes tight.
“Shit, I’m sorry about your father.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say because it’s true.
I still have both my parents, and they might not live close by, but they love me, and I love them.
“What was he like?” I ask her.
“Oh, he was great. Kind, sweet, caring. The opposite of my mom—shit, that wasn’t very nice.”
“Was it honest?” I ask. She nods.
“Then it doesn’t have to be nice.”
She sucks in a shaky breath.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask.
It comes out hoarse, a little raw, because I need to know.
“March 5th,” she whispers, eyes darting away like she’s ashamed of even that.
Goddammit.
That was the day after she showed up here.
While I was admiring her work ethic, her quiet fire—while I was dreaming about her in my bed and imagining what it’d be like to kiss her senseless—she was turning thirty.
Alone.
In a shitty cabin.
Working a job she didn’t know a thing about, scraping together her confidence like broken glass just to feel safe again.
And I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
But I still blame myself.
My jaw clenches. My heart pounds. But I reach out and wrap my fingers around hers again, bringing her hand to my mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles like it’s a vow.
“Happy birthday, Willow.”
My voice is rough. Low. But she gives me a wobbly smile, like it still means something coming from me.
She continues, braver now.
“Thank you. I-I had a job, you know. I had a life. A shitty one, but a life all the same. But I couldn’t, I mean, I just didn’t go to the bank when I left because my ex works at one.
And if I accessed it—if I made a move—he’d find me.
And I needed time. Space. Solid ground under my feet before I did anything.
But I’m not asking you to fix it. I swear I’m not dumping this all on you—”
“Willow.”
I say her name like a promise.
Then firmly, “Stop.”
Soft. But laced with steel.
She blinks up at me, startled.
And I take both of her hands in mine, grounding her.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Not about having money. Not about surviving. Not about being smart enough to wait until you felt safe. That’s what strong people do. That’s what smart people do. You did exactly what you needed to do to get free and stay that way.”
She’s breathing faster now, and I swear there’s this shine in her eyes that guts me in the best possible way.
“I’m not here because I think you need saving. I’m here because I want to be. I want you. And not because you’re some victim or charity case. Not because you’re scared or starting over.”
I brush a strand of hair from her cheek and let my hand linger.
“I want you because you’re you. Because you’re strong. And smart. And beautiful. Because you’re brave as fuck. Because even scared and on the run, you picked yourself up and now you’re carving out a life for yourself.”
Her lips tremble.
And when I pull her closer and press my forehead to hers, I let myself breathe again.
She thinks she’s too much—too messy—too broken.
But I don’t care about her money.
I don’t care about her past.
All I care about is her.
I squeeze her tighter, willing her to feel the truth in my arms.
Because this woman is breaking my damn heart and doesn’t even realize it.
This woman—this brave, beautiful, battered woman—thinks she needs to explain her worth to me like I haven’t already seen it.
“I don’t care about your bank account,” I tell her. “Or what you had to leave behind to get here. You made it out. You got free. And now, you’re here. With me. And we can go as fast or slow as you like.”
I slide my hand to her cheek and make her look at me.
“Thatcher,” she whimpers, and I can’t help but kiss her.
Our lips meet, and it’s soft and small and perfect. She opens for me like a flower in the sun, and I want to cherish this moment with her.
I press my forehead to hers.
“You’re with me, Willow. And as far as I’m concerned? That’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
She swallows.
Her breath stutters, and for a second, she looks like she might shatter. Then she leans into my touch.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I continue, steel creeping into my tone.
“You don’t have to—”
But I interrupt, “You will never be alone again. Not while I’m still breathing.”
She closes her eyes.
And I swear to God, I’ve never wanted to build something solid and lasting more than I do in this moment—with her.
She looks at me then—really looks at me—like she’s trying to decide whether she can believe that.
I meet her gaze without blinking.
Because this?
This isn’t impulse.
Or lust.
Or a fling that got out of hand.
This is certainty.
She didn’t come here by accident.
And I’m not letting her face the world alone again.
Finally, she bites her lip, then nods.
And I swear to God, it feels like I just won a gold medal.
“Now, do you want to watch an action movie or a romcom?”
“Um, action,” she replies.
We settle on the couch. I tuck her in beside me, my arm around her shoulders.
Ten minutes in, she shifts and winces.
“Okay?”
“Sorry,” she whispers. “Cramp.”
“Hold on,” I say, already standing.
I head to the kitchen, rummage through the junk drawer until I find what I’m looking for.
Kelly gave me the lavender-scented rice pack years ago, swore it helped aches and pains.
I microwave it, then head back.
“Come on, Baby Girl,” I murmur. “We’ll finish this in bed.”
She follows me without question.
I turn on the TV in the bedroom and tell her to lie down. She does.
I slide in behind her, spooning her close, my arm tucked under her head, my chest pressed to her back.
Her body fits mine like it was built for it.
I grit my teeth against the rush of want, then place the warm rice pack gently on her lower belly.
She gasps.
“What—what is that?”
“It’s me taking care of my woman,” I say simply. “Now hush and watch the movie.”
I kiss her neck.
She smiles.
And that smile does something deep and permanent inside me.
I’ve been the man who wasn’t enough before.
The one who lived too rough, too far from the world someone else wanted.
But this?
This feels right.
And for the first time in a long damn while, I’m not afraid to want what I want.
I want Willow.
And I’m not letting her go.