Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
CORA
It goes on replay in my head over and over again, hearing those words, as Arlo hands me a glass of water and a couple of pills.
He watches me as I drink and swallow. His dark hair is unkempt, yet somehow still looks fantastic.
Then he announces, “I’m going to visit your mother today.
They called and said she was doing well on her antibiotics.
And that she ate all that chocolate you left, so I’m going to take her more. ”
I’m shocked by his offer. No one ever helps with my mother—it’s always been me.
For so long, it’s just been instinctual to handle it all myself, as if it’s stitched into the fabric of who I am.
The idea of someone else stepping in feels foreign…
almost wrong. But he doesn’t say it as if it’s an obligation or something he’s doing out of pity.
His voice is steady and confident, leaving no room for protest. It’s not just the words.
It’s the way he says them, as if he’s already decided and as if helping me isn’t a burden but a given.
“I can go.”
“No, you can’t. Your mother is healing, and so are you. Rest. I’ll be back later with food.” Arlo leans down and, ever so softly, presses a kiss to my forehead before ordering, “Sleep.”
“You pay for her care, don’t you?” He pulls back and says nothing. But the look on his face tells me everything I need to know. He does.
“Sleep,” he repeats.
I want to tell him no, but my eyes are starting to get heavy as he places a glass of water on the bedside table and then turns to leave.
“Why do you think you’re falling in love with me?” I blurt out. I was going to avoid mentioning it because he hasn’t actually said the words to me. But it’s all I can think about. A distraction, I guess, from the pain that sits heavy in my chest at the thought of never seeing Delaney again.
We won’t be at each other’s weddings.
Our children won’t grow up together.
All the things we talked about and planned while drunk in our apartment many years ago.
Who am I going to call when I need to vent to someone?
It’s always been her. Sebastian works for me, and while I consider him a great friend, he isn’t her, and he never will be.
She is irreplaceable. So yes, I will bring up the tough conversations because they’re a distraction.
And Arlo is becoming a nice distraction.
“I don’t think…” is all he gives me before he walks out.
I hear him lock the door as he leaves.
And it’s not long before my eyes close, and I pass out.
* * *
A week goes by in a blur. I delay all work and attend Delaney’s funeral.
Arlo paid for it, and he isn’t aware that I know he did.
But someone sent in an anonymous donation to cover all expenses.
I’ve kept it to myself, but I know it was him because I saw an email receipt for funds paid to the funeral home flash on his screen when we were at her celebration of life party.
Arlo is sitting across the table from me, and I contemplate telling him I saw it, but I decide not to. We haven’t spoken much about what happened or the fact that he said he was falling in love with me. I sat with that information for days, letting it sink in and warm me from the inside out.
“Thank you for being here for me this week,” I say sincerely as our food is placed in front of us. “And for visiting my mother.” He informed me that he had employed a delivery service to bring her chocolate every other day. I didn’t argue about it, which is so unlike me.
Today is the first day I haven’t cried since that awful day Rylas kidnapped me, and I found out he killed Delaney. My face feels less swollen, and Arlo has been cautious with what he says around me because I’ll burst out crying at the drop of a hat.
“It was no problem.”
We sit in silence for a moment longer before I say, “You no longer wear your beads.” I point to his hands.
“I told you… I no longer need them,” he says, reaching for his drink.
“What do you mean?”
“They were a tool I used to cope with my fucked-up childhood, but I think I’ve moved past that now.” He takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
“That’s a big breakthrough,” I tell him. “What’s the Society?” I ask quietly, after making sure no one is paying us any attention.
“The privilege of that knowledge is held for wives alone.”
“Is that why you said you would marry me?” I question.
“Yes. Wives know what it is, but not its full scope. It wouldn’t be a secret society if you knew all the details.”
“And having outsiders know is wrong?”
“It goes against our rules.”
“Okay.” I leave it at that.
“You can’t mention it to anyone,” he warns.
“What, about marriage? I don’t want to marry you.”
“Ever?”
“I never said that. I mean right now.”
His lips curve into a smirk. “But you’re thinking about it.”
I am, which is so unlike me. I never once even considered marriage to any of the other men I’ve been with.
But with Arlo, it’s been on my mind since that night in the woods when he proclaimed he was going to marry me.
Not that I think he would do anything against my will, but I’ve never really thought about the man I would be marrying.
Sure, I imagined getting married—most girls do. I dreamed of my dress, the flowers, and the location. But not once have I actually pictured the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle.
Arlo and I are still very new to each other, and I feel it’s too soon to be discussing marriage.
But here we are. A small part of me wants him to admit to my face that he loves me.
I don’t plan to say it before him, even if this past week has proven to me that I’m falling very quickly for him.
His constant support, being there for me and doing small things, has comforted me, even when I’d usually be irritated if someone stepped in to help me like that.
“Possibly,” I deadpan.
“That’s all I can ask for, then. At least for now.”
“Do you think it’s too soon?” I ask.
“No, I don’t. I have several patients who moved in together or got married within weeks or months of knowing each other, and their relationships are just as strong as those who knew each other for years before taking those steps.
Love doesn’t have a timeframe. It just is.
So, no, I don’t think we’re moving too fast.” I feel the conviction in his words—steady and unwavering, like he truly believes every syllable.
And somehow, that certainty wraps around me like a safety net, easing the doubts clawing at the edges of my heart.
“What if you end up hating me?” I ask. “Or discover that I snore too loudly?”
“I’ll never hate you. And trust me, I know when I will dislike someone. And second, your snore is cute.”
“I do not snore,” I say indignantly, and he laughs.
“On your pain meds, you do.”
“Yeah, well, normally I don’t. I want that noted.”
“Noted.”
“Are you not going to ask about what would happen if I get sick of you?”
“You won’t.” He smiles confidently.
“That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“You have literally become the center of my world. If you hate someone, then so do I.” He shrugs.
“That sounds toxic.”
“Sorry, are you the therapist now?” he asks, raising his brow.
“No.”
But then I remember the way he treats people I deem friends or family.
My mother, for example. He doesn’t have to do any of those things for her, and I’ve never once asked him to.
Yet he does them without a second thought.
And what he did for Delaney? I can never fully express what that means to me.
“I want to get a tattoo,” I blurt.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, what do you want to get?”
I point to a spot on my arm. “I want Delaney’s name in script right here.”
He nods once, then picks up his phone, ignoring me for a few minutes before he raises his head and meets my eyes.
“I have someone. He can fit you in now.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
He stands and holds his hand out for me.
I take it.
I would be silly not to.
* * *
Arlo is cracking his knuckles from the seat next to me as the man tattoos Delaney’s name onto my skin. I reach over and grip his hand to make him stop, and he looks down as if he just now realized he was doing it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t like another man touching you,” he grumbles.
The tattooist pauses and quickly glances up at Arlo, but I give him a reassuring smile, and with a head nod from Arlo, he bends back to his work.
“That’s a red flag, you know,” I say, and he grips my hand in his.
“We can go to Six Flags, and I can show you them all,” he replies sarcastically, making me laugh. And when I do, he smiles at me.
“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask him. “I mean, I’ve seen you naked, but maybe I missed them?”
“No,” he says, then adds, “But I plan to change that once yours is done.”
When my ink is complete and I stand to look in the mirror, he takes my seat. I stare down at Delaney’s name on my arm, a permanent reminder that she is always with me, even if she’s not here physically.
When I turn back, I see Arlo pulling down his bottom lip.
I’m confused at first until the tattooist lifts the gun and begins a freehand tattoo on the inside of Arlo’s lip.
Curious, I step closer. It doesn’t take long for him to finish, and when he rolls back on his stool, I see one word inked there.
Hers.
Arlo wipes his mouth and then turns to face me.
“Did it hurt?”
“No, surprisingly not.” He stands and pays the tattooist before we leave.
“What does it mean?” I ask, nervous excitement vibrating through me.
“Yours” is all he says in response. I’m so stunned by his words that, without thinking, I grab him by his collar, take him around the corner of the tattoo shop, and lean in to kiss his neck.
He lets me, and his mouth finds mine as I push him against the brick wall and start to grind myself on him.
He takes that invitation as all he needs, lifting me and slamming my back against the wall.
The skirt I was wearing bunches up, and I try but fail to reach between us so I can feel him.
Instead, he knows exactly what I am doing, and I hear the sound of his zipper as he continues to kiss my neck before I feel him pull my underwear to the side, and he slams straight into me.
Relief floods through me, hard and long, filling every fiber of my being.
I love this man with every part of me.
And he loves me.
Arlo is what I have been chasing to feed my naughty ways, and I didn’t even know it.
But he knew it.
He slams into me as his mouth devours mine, and I have to remember not to bite his bottom lip as he fucks me up against the brick wall, which is scraping against my back.
But fuck, it’s hard not to do.
My nails dig into his back through his clothes as we both come hard and fast, neither of us able to catch our breath as our lips stay connected.
“And you didn’t even need the beads.” I joke.
And with those words, he pulls back and winks at me.