33. Carry Me
Carry Me
Silas
I settle onto my knees behind her, the lingering taste of her on my tongue spinning through my mind.
My cock stirs again, insatiable, but a glance at her shoulders, trembling and marked by my rough hands, steadies me.
The hour is late; responsibilities wait for us with the dawn.
I exhale slowly, leaning forward to work the knots around her wrists.
The rope slides free, and I cast it into the shadows in the corner. I guide her arms forward with a tender touch, kneading her hands as the blood returns to them. She winces when my fingertips brush over her reddened skin.
Then, without thought, my arms slip around her waist, drawing her against me. Her body yields, collapsing into my embrace. Leaning back, I hold her to my chest, letting the quiet envelop us. For just a moment, I want to feel her warm body on mine.
Her head tilts against my shoulder, her breaths slowing, starting to match mine. Each rise and fall feels like a fragile rhythm between us, a wordless connection that feels too intimate.
“I’m so tired, Silas,” she whispers, her voice rough-edged, like a confession that carries more than just exhaustion.
I tighten my arms around her before shifting her in my grip. Carefully, I turn her, then slide one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. Lifting her from the floor, her soft body molds effortlessly into mine. Her lashes flutter as her eyes drift closed, her trust palpable.
As I carry her to the door, fumbling with the lock, I steal a glance down at her.
She looks peaceful in a way I’ve never seen, as though the fight within her has stilled, if only for now.
Her head sways with the gentle rhythm of my steps, resting in the crook of my arm as I ascend the stairs.
The quiet hum of the house seems to wrap around us, a soft cocoon in the still of the night.
For once, I let myself feel her entirely. Her tenderness, her fragility, and the trust she’s placed in me. It seeps into the cracks of the walls I’ve built. Heat spreading into spaces left cold for so long.
When we reach her door, I find it unlocked. Pushing it open feels invasive, as though crossing a threshold into a part of her she hasn’t invited me to see. But the act is necessary.
The moment the door creaks open, a familiar scent crashes over me like a breaking wave.
Caroline’s perfume. The sweet, floral notes flood my senses, each one striking a memory deep in my chest like a hammer.
My knees threaten to give out as images of her cascade through my mind.
Caroline smiling. Caroline laughing. Caroline reaching for me in the stillness of a thousand nights past.
I’ve smelled it on her before. But it was subtle and fleeting, wafting past me like an echo.
But here? In her space, it is overwhelming, suffocating.
The scent weaves through the air like a phantom’s touch, clawing at my ribs and wrenching my breath away.
Why this scent? My thoughts splinter and stumble, unable to make sense of why this woman, so separate yet so alike, would share this haunting detail with the ghost of my past.
I move toward her bed and gently lower her onto the mattress. She stirs as I tug the quilt over her, her body curling naturally into its warmth. My hand lingers, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, needing one last moment of connection before I leave this room.
“Goodnight, dove. ”
She shifts beneath the quilt, her lips parting as a soft, groggy whisper escapes into the silence. “Goodnight, Bronco.”
Bronco .
Her words slam into me like a physical blow.
My knees give out fully this time, and I drop to the floor, my body thudding against the boards as my chest tightens.
My head spins, the walls of her room collapsing inward as my mind races to comprehend the impossible.
Bronco . It’s been years. Four long years since I last heard that name.
A name only one person has ever called me.
Caroline.
The name echoes in my skull; the memories roaring back like a relentless tide. Her teasing voice the first time she’d called me it, the laughter laced into the syllables as it became an intimate marker between us, the way she’d murmured it when we made love for the first time.
How does Helena know? My breath comes in shallow gasps as questions claw at my mind. Had I slipped? Had she heard me mutter it during one of my haunted nights? Or is this something more sinister?
The room turns frigid. Helena’s features soften in her sleep, completely unaware of the turmoil unraveling mere feet from her. I sit on my knees, head bowed, fists clenching the edge of the bed frame as I fight to anchor myself to reality.
I try to dismiss it as coincidence, an accident of timing, but the connection won’t let me go. It’s not just the scent. Not just the name. It’s Helena, wrapped in the threads of my past, the threads of her . The lines blur, and for the first time, I’m terrified of what it means.
How much of this woman is truly Helena? And how much is something I’ve unknowingly conjured, a reflection of the one who left me behind?