When he went home and paced like a fool, back and forth. The energy in him had been turbo-lit, a live wire buzzing under his skin. He now knew why he screwed up the best thing in his life. The clarity was a physical force, a restless current that demanded motion.
He stripped off his shirt, his body overheating as the thoughts steamrolled through him, his mind in overdrive. The doctor had told him nothing strenuous until his stitches came out, but he needed to move. He needed to break something, even if it was just his own body’s rules.
He walked into the kitchen, his movements sharp and sure. After washing his hands methodically, cleaning the wound with soap and water and drying it thoroughly before adding a topical antiseptic, he pulled out his med kit, the familiar black case a small anchor in the storm of his thoughts. The sharp scent cut through the air as he stripped the tweezers and small scissors from their sterilized sleeves, the metal cool and precise in his hands. He snipped the knot, his own hands steady, and gently pulled the thread from the other side, careful to avoid any of the external suture passing back through his skin. It didn’t hurt at all, just a slight, foreign tugging, and then it was out. The edges of the wound were firmly closed, his scar thin and pink.
He went into his workout room, the space smelling of rubber and iron. He grabbed the pull-up bar and went to town. His body moved with a ferocious, pent-up energy. Each pull was a repudiation. Each lift of his own body weight was a declaration. He wasn't just pulling himself up. He was pulling himself out of the grave his mother had dug for him, out of the cycle he had almost continued with Blair.
The burn in his lats and shoulders was a welcome fire, a cleansing pain that scrubbed away the last of the numbness. He wasn't running from the truth anymore. He was running toward it. He was embracing the man his father saw, the man Blair loved, the man he was finally ready to be. She was right on the tarmac. He didn’t get to decide for her. He only got to decide who he was. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath coming in ragged, powerful bursts. This wasn't about healing his side anymore. This was about forging the rest of him, stronger and more honest than before.
The knock on the door made Breakneck want to ignore it. He was drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming, his body still humming with the restless energy he’d tried to burn away on the pull-up bar. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to explain. He wanted to feel it all, the rage, the grief, the earth-shattering clarity. Everything in his life felt colorless now. Tasteless. Aching. God, he’d thought he’d been numb before. That had been nothing compared to the aftermath of Blair Brown. He closed his eyes and sighed as the knocking came again, sharp and insistent. If it was one of his teammates here to “check on him,” he swore to God, he was going to lose it.
He dragged himself to the door, the movement stiff, and yanked it open.
She hit him like a concussion grenade. The air, thick with the metallic tang of his own sweat, was instantly displaced by the clean, warm scent of her. She stood there with her hands on her hips, eyes blazing, her presence filling the hallway like she owned it. She brushed past him without hesitation, like she absolutely did, her gaze sweeping the room, taking in the discarded med kit, the tension still coiled in his frame.
“So where is he?” she demanded.
He frowned, disoriented, his brain still stuck in the violent rhythm of his workout. “Where’s who?”
She turned on him, lifting her chin, her eyes locking onto his. “That white horse you seem to think I need.” She marched right up into his space, her body a live wire of its own. “I have a horse,” she informed him flatly. “And he’s jet black.”
His brain short-circuited. He could barely process the sheer force of her being here, in his house, in his face, dismantling his noble sacrifice with a few sharp words. He could only breathe her in. Her. The scent of her. The reality of her.
She grabbed his T-shirt in both hands. “Do I look like a damsel?”
He just stared at her, at the fire in her eyes, at the stubborn set of her jaw. He was a man who could read terrain, assess threats, and predict outcomes, but she was the one variable that always blew his calculations to hell.
“Do I look like?—”
He didn’t let her finish. He kissed her.
It was a collision. A desperate, consuming need to bridge the gap he had so stupidly created. He fisted a hand in her hair, the other arm banding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He poured every ounce of frustration and regret into it until relief was the only thing left. Just like that, his life snapped back into focus. The frantic energy that had been driving him finally found its target, its home. The world, which had been a flat, gray wasteland, bloomed into violent, beautiful color.
“Damn, you’re like an intoxicating drug,” she said raggedly, taking his mouth over and over again. “I don’t know if I want to screw your brains out more or fight with you. God, I just want to fuck you up, over and over again.”
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a rough, ragged thing. “Goddamn, woman, I’ve been royally screwed since I met you.” He saw the fire in her eyes flare, and a raw grin touched his lips. “Fuck then fight,” he managed.
“I’m not counting this as an agreement,” she said, her voice a low, fierce tremor against his lips, “because I have words for you that have been brewing since the moment you thought I needed some goddamned knight in shining armor.” She pulled back just enough to pin him with her gaze, her hands still fisted in his shirt. “Even armor gets worn and dented, and now and then heroes need saving, too. How about I save you, this time? How about I be your lighthouse when the storms get rough, and be here like the rock you are, melding and holding this foundation we’ve built? How about that?”
His breath hitched, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a staggering wave of hope. “You think I can handle that?”
“I think you can handle anything.”
“Not anything,” he whispered, the admission raw and scraped from his soul. “I couldn’t handle losing you.”
“That pathetic attempt on the tarmac to let me down easily?” she scoffed, her eyes flashing. She grabbed handfuls of his hair, her fingers tightening into the strands and shaking him, not with anger, but with a desperate, beautiful force. “You never lost me, not for one moment.” She held him steady, her gaze softening just enough to undo him completely before she kissed him again, her mouth devouring his, a claim and a comfort all at once. “Damn I want you,” she breathed against his lips. “Your body. Your heart. Your soul. And yes, your dick deep inside me.”
A raw, broken laugh escaped him. “You don’t want much, do you?”
“Full surrender. Full participation. Full responsibility.”
She didn’t just love him, she challenged him, called him out on his bullshit with her deft table-flipping hands and heart, building him stronger than before. She wasn’t a damsel, a knight or a rock. She was the entire fucking kingdom, and she was his. His.
“Those are your goddamn terms?” he rasped, his voice thick with an emotion so potent it scared him.
“Those are my goddamn terms,” she confirmed, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ve already surrendered to me, Kelly. I already surrendered to you the moment you showed me who you were, all the flaws and mistakes wrapped up in a man who had the courage, even through his damage and fear, to bare his soul… and could reach back to me and not only give me everything he had, but look at me and see all my doubts, fears, and pain, and never flinch once. You tried to be a shield and sword. You’re all I’ll ever need. We’ll chase this future together.”
“On one condition,” he said, loving the feel of her hands in his hair, the grounding pressure of her touch. “You let me take the reins now and then.”
