28. Cloe
CLOE
I woke to silence.
Not the kind I was used to. Not the kind that made the world feel far away. This silence was built. It felt like protection. Like someone had put it there for me. Like someone had fought to keep it.
The sheets beneath me were too smooth. Too crisp. They didn’t smell like detergent. They smelled like him. That sharp, clean mix of cedar and cold. A scent I’d only caught in passing before—brushed against in the hallway, lingering in his office.
Now it was wrapped around me like a second skin. The bed was too big. The mattress barely dipped beneath my weight. Like no one had ever slept on this side before.
I turned my head. Looked at the other half. Untouched. The pillows still fluffed. Perfect. Like he hadn’t even dared to lie down.
I swallowed. Hard. The bruise on my cheek pulsed. Not sharp. Just constant. A dull throb that tugged at the corner of my mouth when I tried to move it.
I licked my lips. Tasted blood I didn’t remember. Wolfe’s shirt clung to me. Soft. Too soft. The sleeves hung past my wrists. The hem brushed mid-thigh. It smelled like him too. I didn’t know if it made me feel safe or sick.
I sat up slowly. Everything ached. My ribs. My shoulders. My thighs. The space between my legs where Wolfe had once touched me like a secret. And now? Now that same body curled in on itself like it didn’t know how to move anymore.
The hallway was dim. Muted light filtered through the blinds. Warm. Unfamiliar.
Something smelled like coffee. I padded barefoot to the doorway. The floors were cold. Too clean. Like no one actually lived here. Like the apartment was curated—not used.
He was in the kitchen. Barefoot. Dark shirt. Tablet in one hand. Coffee in the other. I froze in the archway. He didn’t look up right away. Then?—
“Morning, bruise girl.”
I flinched. Not because it hurt. Because I hadn’t expected his voice. I hadn’t expected him. He looked at me then. Fully. Eyes sharp. But not unkind.
“Jesus,” he muttered, setting the tablet down.
“Relax. I’m not going to bite.”
I crossed my arms over the shirt. Suddenly very aware of my legs. Bare. Exposed.
“I thought Wolfe?—”
“Wolfe’s out,” he cut in.
Didn’t let me finish.
“Didn’t want to leave you alone. And let’s be honest, he doesn’t trust anyone but me.”
Pause.
“That includes himself.”
His words landed too hard. Like a truth I hadn’t earned yet.
I didn’t reply. Didn’t move. The coffee smelled good. But my stomach turned.
I backed into the hallway. Royal didn’t follow. Didn’t push. He just watched.
The bathroom was marble. White. Gold trim. Too clean. Too much. It made me feel dirty just for being in it.
I peeled off Wolfe’s shirt. Every bruise felt like it shifted under the fabric. Like it didn’t want to be seen. But I saw them anyway. Purple. Red. Green already blooming in the corners.
The shower was too hot. The water hit my shoulders like pressure, not relief. But I stepped in anyway. Let it burn. And then?—
I sat down. Right on the marble floor. Back to the wall. Knees to my chest. And I cried. Not quiet. Not gentle. Just wrecked .
Because the last two days had hollowed me out and filled me with the wrong things.
I tried not to picture Wolfe’s face. The way he looked when he lifted me like glass. The way he gripped the back of my head like he was trying not to break me.
I tried not to think about Royal, sitting outside, pretending not to listen. But the truth? This was the first time I’d felt safe in months. And that scared me more than anything else.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I wandered. Every step was tentative. My body still sore. My breath still shallow. The hem of Wolfe’s shirt brushed over bruised skin I hadn’t worked up the nerve to look at yet.
The apartment was spotless. Not in a lived-in way. In a curated way. Like someone had designed it for functionality. For discipline. Not for warmth. No photos. No mementos. No clutter. Everything matte and brushed and steel.
A kitchen island he probably never used.
A desk too clean to belong to someone who lived in his own skin.
One potted plant near the window .
Already dying at the edges.
I moved through the space like it might reject me if I breathed too loudly. Like it was a museum and I didn’t belong near the exhibits.
I trailed my fingers along the edge of the coffee table. Opened a drawer in the hallway. Empty. It wasn’t just neat. It was empty. Like the apartment had been waiting for someone to occupy it properly. Like me.
I closed the drawer. Swallowed the thought. Moved toward the living room. Royal didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions. Just leaned against the counter like he had nowhere else to be.
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing. He sipped his coffee. Stared at me like I might vanish if he blinked.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.
I blinked. Looked up.
“What were you expecting?”
He tilted his head.
“More attitude. Less shaking.”
I flushed. Turned away like that would protect me. It didn’t.
“There’s coffee,” he said.
“Help yourself.”
Then, quieter?—
“Wolfe told me not to let anything happen to you. So… don’t test me.”
It wasn’t a threat. Not really. But it wasn’t a joke either.
I moved to the counter. Poured a cup. It was hot. Stronger than I liked. But I held it in both hands and let the heat sink into my palms. Royal didn’t move. Just kept watching. Like I was a puzzle he hadn’t finished putting together.
The silence stretched. Sharp. But not cruel. Just heavy. Like both of us were waiting for the other to speak first. And neither of us really wanted to.
I sat on the edge of the couch. Tucked my legs up. Wolfe’s shirt bunched around my thighs. I felt the chain shift across my collarbone and didn’t adjust it.
“You hungry?”
Royal’s voice broke the silence like it had weight behind it. I looked up. He was still holding the same cup of coffee. Still unreadable.
“Not really.”
“You should eat something.”
I didn’t respond. He pushed off the counter. Walked into the living room and dropped into the chair across from me like he owned the room. Which… maybe he did. Not the apartment. But the space. The energy. He stared at me for a beat longer. Then said?—
“You think I don’t like you.”
It wasn’t a question. I blinked.
“Do you?”
He shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It kind of does.”
He tilted his head. Smirked. But it didn’t hold its usual bite.
“Look. I don’t hate you.”
“But?”
“But I’ve seen girls like you come and go. Pretty. Quiet. Complicated as fuck. Always hiding something.”
That stung more than it should have. I looked away.
“I didn’t ask to be here.”
“No,” he said. “But you didn’t run either.”
That one hit harder. Because it was true. He leaned forward. Elbows on his knees.
“You want the truth?”
I didn’t answer. He gave it anyway.
“I don’t like Barron. ”
My eyes snapped to his. That I hadn’t expected.
“Never have,” he added. “Too proud. Too used to people doing what he says just because he says it.”
He pointed at me with his mug.
“But you? You didn’t fold.”
“I kind of did.”
“Sure. But you got back up. That counts.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. So I held my cup tighter. Sipped. Burned my tongue. Didn’t flinch.
“You’re better than you think,” he said, quieter now.
“You barely know me.”
“I know Wolfe.”
The silence that followed was a different kind of heavy. Wolfe. The man who touched me like I was made of breath and silence. Who looped a chain around my neck and called it protection.
“He’s scary when he cares,” Royal said.
I looked up. He was staring into his coffee.
“But he listens to me. He trusts me. And right now? That trust is sitting on that couch with bruises and bare feet and a ring she probably shouldn’t be wearing.”
I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. But I felt the lump in my throat swell until I had to breathe through my nose just to keep it down.
“So no,” he finished. “I don’t hate you.”
“Then what?”
He looked at me. Eyes tired. But honest.
“I’m rooting for you. Even if I don’t know why yet.”
I didn’t answer. But my eyes stung in a way I didn’t expect. Royal leaned back in the chair. Crossed one ankle over his knee. Like he hadn’t just said something I’d remember when I woke up at 3 a.m. not knowing why I felt like I was falling.
“I’m not good at this shit,” he added .
I tilted my head.
“What shit?”
“Making scared girls feel safe without sounding like I’m flirting.”
I blinked.
A beat passed.
Then—unexpectedly—I laughed .
Not loud. Not long. But real. It hurt my ribs. But it loosened something else. Royal’s grin was crooked.
“See? Not a total monster.”
“You kind of are.”
He raised his mug in mock salute.
“Takes one to know one.”
We sat in silence a few seconds longer. Then he stood, stretched, and nodded toward the kitchen.
“There’s toast. And Wolfe left instructions to feed you. Like I’m your temporary bodyguard-slash-butler.”
“And if I refuse?”
He arched a brow.
“I sit on the couch with a gun in my lap until you get hungry.”
I shook my head. But I stood anyway. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because…
Maybe I wasn’t alone in it anymore.