Chapter 16 - Nathan
The penthouse is too quiet.
I've been sitting in my study for the past hour, pretending to review financial reports, but the numbers blur into meaningless shapes on the screen. My mind is elsewhere—on her, always on her.
Eve hasn't spoken to me since she came back home. She disappeared into the guest room, and I let her go, sensing she needed space to process everything. The company saved. Bryce destroyed. Her life fundamentally altered in the span of forty-eight hours.
But it's been too long now. The silence feels wrong, heavy with something I can't name.
I close my laptop and move through the penthouse, checking each room. Empty. Empty. The guest room door stands ajar, the bed untouched.
A cold finger of worry traces down my spine.
Then I see it—the door to the rooftop garden is open, letting in the cool night air.
I take the stairs two at a time.
***
She's sitting on the stone bench at the edge of the garden, surrounded by the city's glittering sprawl. The wind catches her red hair, whipping it around her face. She doesn't turn when I approach, doesn't acknowledge my presence at all.
She's shivering. The thin sweater she's wearing does nothing against the autumn chill.
I grab a blanket from the storage chest near the door and move toward her slowly, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. When I drape it around her shoulders, she finally looks up at me.
Her eyes are red-rimmed. She's been crying.
Something in my chest cracks.
"Eve," I say quietly, sitting beside her. "You're freezing."
"I can't feel it," she whispers. Her voice is hollow, distant. "I can't feel anything."
I pull the blanket tighter around her, and she doesn't resist. We sit in silence for a long moment, the city humming below us, oblivious to our small tragedy.
"I dream about the accident," I say suddenly. The words come unbidden, pulled from some deep place I've kept locked for sixteen years. "Every night. The sound of metal twisting. The smell of gasoline and blood. Alex's laughter in my ears, and then... nothing."
She turns to look at me, surprise flickering in her empty eyes.
"The doctors said I was lucky to survive," I continue, my voice rough.
I reach up and touch the scar hidden beneath my hairline—the permanent reminder of that night.
"I should have saved him," I whisper. "I should have been the one who died. He was good, Eve. Pure in a way I never was. And I killed him."
"It was an accident," she says softly.
"Was it?" I meet her gaze. "I was the one who suggested we take his father's car. I was the one who dared him to go faster. I was seventeen and stupid and reckless, and your brother paid the price for my arrogance."
Tears spill down her cheeks, silent and devastating. I cup her face gently, wiping away her tears with my thumbs.
"I know my methods are extreme," I murmur. "I know I've hurt you, controlled you, stripped away your freedom. But Eve, I don't know any other way to protect you. Losing you would be like losing him all over again, and I can't—I won't survive that."
She closes her eyes, more tears escaping. "You're breaking me."
"I know," I whisper. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."
We sit there in the cold, two broken people clinging to memories.
And for the first time since I found her again, I let her see the monster's scars.
***
She doesn't come to my room that night. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I've finally pushed her too far. If my moment of vulnerability was actually the thing that broke us irreparably.
The clock reads 2:48 AM when I hear it—a soft knock on my door.
I'm on my feet instantly, my heart pounding with something that might be hope.
When I open the door, she's standing there in one of my t-shirts, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide and vulnerable in the dim hallway light.
We don't speak. There are no words for this moment.
She steps forward, and I step back, letting her enter my sanctuary. The door closes behind her with a soft click that sounds like fate.
She stands in the middle of my room, trembling slightly, and I see it all on her face—fear, desire, resignation, need. A complicated tangle of emotions that mirrors my own.
"Eve," I breathe her name like a prayer.
"Don't," she whispers. "Don't say anything. Just... please."
I understand. Words would shatter this fragile moment. Analysis would break the spell.
I move toward her slowly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind, to run. But she doesn't. She stands her ground, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her eyes locked on mine.
When I reach her, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.
It's not like the other times—not dominated by hunger or control. This kiss is soft, questioning, almost reverent. A plea more than a claim.
She melts into me with a small sound that goes straight to my soul.
I pull back just enough to search her eyes. "Are you sure?"
She nods, her hands fisting in my shirt. "I need to feel something other than broken."
The raw honesty of it destroys me.
I lift her easily, and her legs wrap around my waist as I carry her to the bed. I lay her down gently, reverently, and she pulls me down with her.
This time, when I undress her, my hands are gentle. Each piece of clothing removed is an unwrapping of something precious. She shivers as the cool air hits her skin, and I warm her with my body, my mouth, my hands.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur against her throat. "So fucking perfect."
She arches into me, her fingers threading through my hair. "Nathan..."
I nod. I know what she needs. I take her wrists and pull them roughly above her head. A moan escapes her as I tie both of them.
I kiss down her body, taking my time, worshipping every curve, every freckle, every inch of skin. When I settle between her thighs, she gasps, her hands pulling at the restraints.
"Let me take care of you," I whisper. "Let me make it good."
I taste her slowly, thoroughly, learning every response, every sound she makes. Her pleasure becomes my singular focus, my entire world narrowed to the trembling of her thighs and the way she says my name like a benediction.
When she comes apart on my tongue, it's with a cry that sounds like release—not just of pleasure, but of something deeper. Years of longing, of holding everything together, of being strong when she was dying inside.
I kiss my way back up her body and sink into her slowly, our eyes locked. She's tight and wet and perfect, and I have to pause, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it.
"Move," she breathes. "Please, Nathan, I need—"
I know what she needs. I can see it in her eyes, feel it in the desperate way she clings to me.
I start to move, deep and steady, and she wraps her legs around me completely. Our bodies find a rhythm that feels ancient, inevitable, like we've been moving toward this moment since that first night at the club.
But this is different. This isn't just sex. This is catharsis.
Her breath comes in gasps, and then I hear it—a small sob. And another. Tears stream down her face, but she doesn't stop moving, doesn't pull away. She cries while I make love to her, releasing years of pain with every thrust, every touch, every whispered word.
"I've got you," I murmur, kissing her tears. "You're safe. I've got you."
She sobs harder, her body shaking, and I hold her through it, my movements never stopping. This is what she needs—to break completely, to finally let go of everything she's been holding inside.
We're moving together, two broken people trying to heal each other the only way we know how. The pleasure builds despite the tears—or maybe because of them—until we're both trembling on the edge.
"Come for me," I whisper. "Let it all go, Eve. I've got you."
She shatters with a cry that sounds like my name, and I follow her over, pouring myself into her as years of guilt and grief finally find their release.
We collapse together, still joined, our bodies slick with sweat and tears. I hold her as she continues to cry, soft sobs that gradually quiet into exhausted breathing.
"Thank you," she whispers eventually. "I needed that."
I kiss her forehead tenderly as I gently release her wrists. "So did I."
We lie there in the darkness, wrapped around each other, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel something that might be peace.
She's mine now. Not because I forced her, not because I manipulated her, but because she chose to come to me with her pain, trusting me to hold her through the breaking.
And I will. I'll hold her through every storm, every grief, every moment of darkness.
Because I finally understand—this isn't about keeping a promise to a dead boy.
This is about bringing a broken woman back to wholeness.
Even if I have to break her a little more first.