Chapter 32 Nick #2
My cock twitched, and I hated it. Hated that I still wanted her even like this. She was gorgeous and broken, and I wanted so much more than just her body.
She started pulling down my boxers. “Mel, you’re drunk. I think we should go upstairs. Check your blood sugar levels.”
“I don’t need insulin, I need your dick inside me.”
My erection throbbed painfully. Goddamnit.
“I want you to make me feel good, Nick. Can you make me feel good, baby?”
She never called me that. Never.
“Okay, c’mon,” I said, trying to pull her up gently.
She flung herself at me. “Mel, stop.”
“You don’t want me?”
“No, that’s not it. I’m not going to fuck you while you’re belligerent.”
“Why? Could be fun.”
“I told you—I want you to remember when I fuck you, Mel. So let’s get you to bed.”
She shoved me, hard. “I’m fine.” She took a few steps and crumpled like a marionette with cut strings.
“Melanie!” I was at her side in an instant. Her skin was cold and clammy. She was fading fast.“Where’s your insulin pen?” I asked, my voice cracking.
She pointed upstairs, her words barely audible. I shook her gently. “Where is it, Melanie?”
She mumbled. I couldn’t understand. My heart was pounding, a violent drumbeat of panic. I carried her to the couch, laid her down, and brushed her hair back.
“Hang in there, princess. I’ll be right back.”
I sprinted to the kitchen. Cabinets flew open. Nothing. My hands shook as I yanked drawers open and searched blindly.
Gunfire. Helicopters. Agonizing screams. The smell of brining flesh. Chaos’s sharp bark. Flashbacks ripped through my skull. My body moved faster, my breathing ragged.
She can’t die. Not her. Not now.
I bolted upstairs, tore through drawers until I found it. Rushed back down. Hands trembling, I filled the syringe, prayed, and injected it into her abdomen, praying it wasn’t too late. I stepped back. And waited. I began to pace the floor when anxiety turned into fear.
“Please, God. Please.”
Five minutes. Six. Seven. Every second was agony.
Then, she moved. A groan slipped past her lips. I dropped to my knees, cradling her, pressing my lips to her forehead like it was the only way to tell her I was here.
“I’m thirsty,” she whispered. I brought her water, held it to her mouth, and when I turned to walk away, I heard it.
“No… please stay.”
I turned to face her. She was hugging a pillow, already drifting off, her hair wild around her face like a halo made of fire.
I lay beside her, curling my body around hers, spooning her, shielding her from every demon, real or imagined. For the first time, I held someone not because I had to, but because I wanted to. She felt like home. Just as I started to slip into sleep, I heard it.
“I love you.”
My eyes flew open. My body went rigid. And I couldn’t help but wonder if she was dreaming. I continued to feel her chest move up and down in a rhythmic pace as I held her.
Sleep never came after that.
I’ve been up since the fucking crack of dawn. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. Not after hearing those words slip out of Melanie’s mouth. Three simple words that detonated in my chest like a landmine I didn’t see coming.
Was she dreaming? Maybe. God, I hope so.
No. Fuck. I hope not.
I’m twisted up inside, stuck somewhere between praying she didn’t mean it and desperately wanting to believe she did.
Because some pathetic, selfish part of me wants those words to be mine.
Mine and no one else’s. Wants to believe I’m the one who cut through the rusted barbed wire around her black, fucked-up heart and breathed life into whatever fragile thing was buried beneath.
That I’m the guy who showed her what it means to be touched by a man, really touched, not just used or claimed or ruined, but devoured and worshipped and seen.
That I’m the one who made her fall apart with my mouth, who made her feel something so deep it stole the air from her lungs.
But then—fuck. There’s the other part of me. The one who knows I’m just as wrecked as she is. Maybe worse. That we’re two disasters playing pretend, and this-this thing between us—isn’t love. It’s survival. It’s a distraction. It’s transactional.
We made a deal. Business only. When it’s over, she gets to walk back into her curated life, and I disappear back into the shadows of mine. We weren’t meant to last. We can’t.
I tossed her some cash this morning and told her to go shopping—something thoughtless, easy.
Cold. I needed space, and I wanted her to think I was just being an asshole.
Especially after last night. Especially after that.
Because what the hell was I thinking—cuddling her?
Holding her like that? Letting her rest her head on my chest while I memorized the rhythm of her breathing?
That wasn’t sex. That was… intimacy. That was dangerous.
I can’t even remember the last time I held a woman after.
I used to run from it like my life depended on it.
Most of the guys in my unit? They’d cling to the first girl they fucked after a deployment, desperate to feel something soft again.
Me? I ran. Fast and far. I watched them fall in love and fall apart and get crushed under the weight of marriages that couldn’t survive the silence of separation.
And I swore I’d never be one of them. Because even if my body’s home now, my mind isn’t.
Not really. Half of me still wakes up in a war zone.
The other half’s just pretending not to.
But with Melanie… it’s different. She feels different. Real. Sharp. Invigorating.
No. No. Fuck that. She’s a liability. She’s too young, too impulsive, too tangled in her own trauma. She’s not mine. I have no right to feel anything for her.
But still… Colt made it work. His girl’s ten years younger too, and somehow, it works.
Abigail has this strength in her—it makes her feel older than she is.
Maybe Melanie’s the same. Maybe age doesn’t mean shit when two broken people find something worth clinging to in each other.
But what if we’ve blurred the lines so badly we can’t even see where we end and the lie begins?
What if this—us—isn’t pretend anymore?
The sharp chime of the doorbell cuts through my spiral like a gunshot. I freeze.
What the fuck?
No one comes here unannounced. I glance out the window and see a sleek Porsche in the driveway.
A woman stands just outside the door, staring up at the house like she’s not sure whether to run or knock again.I place the tomatoes down on the counter, my fingers still stained red from slicing them, and wipe my hands on the towel.
I don’t know why I feel tense, but I do.
Like my body knows something before my mind can catch up.
I open the door and find myself staring down into a pair of striking blue eyes.
“Hi, can I help you?” I ask, my voice low, cautious.
She’s standing at the bottom of the steps—elegant, composed, but her energy is off.
She’s not short, but not as tall as Melanie either.
Blonde hair, neatly styled but dulled with age and maintenance fatigue.
Her lipstick’s too red. Her nails are too perfect. She screams privileged chaos.
“Yes, I’m looking for 1535 Red Bridge Road? My GPS took me here but this doesn’t seem right.”
“This is the house,” I say flatly.
“If this is the right house, then where is Melanie?”
That makes me pause. My spine goes stiff. “Do you know Melanie?”
“Of course, I know Melanie. She’s my daughter. Who the hell are you?”
The words crash into me like a brick wall. Mother?
I square my shoulders. “I’m her husband.”
She laughs—loud and sharp. Not a warm kind of laugh. No, it’s the kind meant to make people feel small. But my expression doesn’t change. I just stare at her. Wait. She realizes I’m not joking. The humor dies in her throat. Her smile fades like it never existed. Her eyes narrow.
“Her husband?” she repeats, her voice curling with suspicion as she rakes her eyes over me like I’m some filthy stain on her designer world.
And that’s when it hits me.
Melanie never told her mother she got married.