It’s another barely there peck.
It’s appropriate for the situation but entirely too gentle and reserved for the needy, lust-laced desire that always exists between us.
Because that’s the thing.
Now that I’m not actively resisting Ty or rallying against some fucked-up narrative where he’s demanding I’m his and only his, it feels like we can go back to the possibility of something real and raw and true between us.
His willingness to try has unlocked a voracious need in me that I’ve had to gatekeep for far too long.
I want him. I want him so badly I ache.
He’s not even out of the room, and I miss him already.
But I owe Mercer a conversation. It’s time to do the responsible thing and tackle all the obstacles standing in the way of rekindling what Mercer and I shared.
“I’ll be right out there,” Ty says, nodding toward the closed door.
I scrunch my nose, a hint of unease creeping through me. Mercer and I have a lot to discuss… much of which involves Ty. His presence so close by won’t lend itself to the sense of safety Mercer will need for us to make any real progress.
“Maybe you could head to the kitchen?” I suggest. “We’ll come out and join you when we’re done.”
Tension spikes between us, but I only sit straighter, holding eye contact. Now that I’ve thought it through, I’m certain a bit of space will be necessary for Mercer’s sake.
Eventually, Ty’s shoulders fall and he nods.
He ambles to the door at a slow, cautious pace, clearly hurting.
With any luck, Noah has something to help him take the edge off.
Yanking the door open, Ty holds out one arm to usher Mercer inside.
To his credit, Mercer doesn’t seem bothered by the way he’s being invited into his own room.
The men don’t say a word to each other, but Ty gives me one last look, his unspoken directive clear—I’ll be right here if you need me—before he disappears.
“Hi,” Mercer grits out as he approaches. His arms are full of bottles and supplies.
I jump up, set to give him a hand, but regret it the second I’m upright. The room spins, and I’m instantly woozy.
“Sit.” He shuffles closer, hovering in the same spot Ty occupied a moment ago as I slump back onto the bed.
Tenderly, he grips me by the elbows and guides me to my feet.
“Try the floor,” he suggests. “It’s more solid than the bed. It should help with the dizziness.”
I allow him to ease me into a sitting position with my back against his bedframe, closing my eyes to fight off the vertigo. When I open them, I find him on the floor as well, sitting directly opposite and mirroring my position, close enough that our knees touch.
Brow furrowed, he cracks open a water bottle. Then he shakes out a few pills from a bottle and offers me both.
I toss the meds into my mouth and suck down half the water in one long gulp. I’ve had three bottles so far this morning, each one making me feel a modicum better. I drank a decent amount last night before I was rolling on molly, but by the way the haze around my head persists, I suspect the molly wasn’t pure. That or the drink JD gave me wasn’t clean.
The shower was necessary, though I spent most of it sitting on the tile. The simple act of washing and rinsing my hair left me wrung out.
“How are you feeling?” Mercer tucks hair behind my ear. He chooses the side opposite from the one Ty did.
The move makes me smile—and it gives me hope. Despite their stark differences and initial loathing of one another, these men have at least one thing in common: how well they care for me.
“Awful,” I groan. “The effects of the molly combined with whatever else I likely ingested are giving me vertigo. Every few minutes, another wave of dizziness and nausea washes over me.”
