“Don’t.” Chris turns, and I see the shattered look in his eyes. But it’s different now. Softer. He heard Wyatt. “I hear you. And I believe you—about your part in it. But don’t tell me it’s okay. I had my hands around your throat and I liked it until I realized what I was doing.”
“You didn’t like hurting me,” Wyatt says quietly. “You liked being in control. There’s a difference.”
Chris exhales. The tension in his shoulders eases, just barely. “Maybe. But that doesn’t erase what I did. I still went somewhere you couldn’t reach me. I have to own that.”
“This is exactly what we need to talk about,” I say. “What Vicente did to you—how he conditioned you?—”
“I know what he did.” Chris’s voice is raw. “I’ve had six months to dissect every fucked-up way he rewired my brain. Six months to undo five years. That doesn’t make it easier to control. Do you know what the last two weeks have been like? Being that close to you and not being able to touch you? Watching you heal and knowing I had to wait, that I couldn’t—” He stops, breathes. “I was crawling out of my skin by Thanksgiving. And then Wyatt offered himself up and I just—I couldn’t hold it together anymore. All that restraint, all that need, and it just?—”
He breaks off. Runs both hands through his hair, turns to Wyatt.
“I don’t know how to be with you without becoming what he made me,” he says finally. “And I don’t know how to stay away. So I just keep—” He gestures at his battered face. “At least when I’m getting hit, I’m not hurting anyone else.”
My heart is pounding. Not from fear. From something else entirely.
Eleven days. It’s been eleven days since my procedure. The doctor said ten to fourteen for the recovery window. I’m right on the edge of being cleared.
And I’m looking at Chris, cracked open, finally letting us see what’s underneath, and I realize with sudden clarity that what he needs isn’t more words. More processing. More careful therapeutic distance.
What he needs is to know he’s not alone in this.
“Chris.” My voice comes out softer than I expected. “Look at me.”
He does. His eyes are wet.
I close the distance between us. Slowly. I reach up and take his face in my hands, careful around the bruises, and hold him there.
“I’m not fragile,” I say quietly. “I’m not recovering anymore. And I’m right here.”
I press my lips to his. Gently. Not demanding anything. Just—here. I’m here. We’re here.
He’s still for a moment. Then his breath shudders out against my mouth and his forehead drops to mine. His hands find my waist, tentative, like I might break.
I kiss him again, in a way that I hope shows I’m ready to give him whatever he needs to take, and feel the moment the kiss shifts—from tender to hungry, from healing to need. His hands tighten. My breath catches.
Chris makes a sound against my mouth—relief, desperation—and then his hands are in my hair and he’s kissing me back like he’s drowning and I’m air.
49
Nina
I don’t give him time to think. Thinking is what got us here. All three of us trapped in our own heads, circling each other for days while the distance grew teeth. I find the hem of his shirt and yank it upward, and he breaks the kiss just long enough for me to pull it over his head.
His chest is a mess. Bruises layered over bruises, some fresh and angry, others fading to that sickly yellow-green. The evidence of four days spent letting strangers beat the guilt out of him. He sees me flinch at all the damage and cups my cheek, gaze flitting over my face.
“Nina—”
“Later.” I don’t care about what happened before right now. I press my mouth to his collarbone, taste salt and skin. “We’ll deal with all of that later.”
I’m aware of Wyatt not far behind me. Still frozen where he was standing. Still processing like someone hit him in the chest with a two-by-four.
I haven’t forgotten him by a longshot, but right now, Chris is the one who’s been running, and I need him to understand that running stops here.
He slides his hands down my back, finding the zipper of my skirt. He tugs and the fabric loosens, falls to pool at my feet. The tunic-style blouse comes off over my head next. Then he finds my bra clasp, unhooking it with a single flick. My bra slides off my shoulders, and then that’s gone too, tossed somewhere behind him.
“Fuck.” His voice is rough as he cups my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples. The zing of pleasure from that brief touch is so strong my knees nearly buckle.
Then he spins me.
