I won’t let him.
I tilt my head just enough to catch his breath on my cheek and whisper, my voice still raspy from sleep, “You stayed.”
His lips brush my shoulder in response, the faintest touch of a smile ghosting there. “Didn’t plan to,” he admits, the confession a low rumble against my skin. “Couldn’t make myself leave.”
“Good,” I whisper back, pressing against him again until another quiet sound slips from both of us. “Because I didn’t want you to.”
He stills, the weight of my words sinking in, and then I feel it—the shift, the slow surrender. His forehead rests against the back of my head, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach. For the first time in too long, there’s no hesitation between us. Just warmth, quiet, and the unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something whole again.
Chapter Fourteen
Rowan
During the night, my sneaky-ass twin decided to pull one of his signature moves. I woke just enough to feel him shifting beside me, his hand gripping my shoulder, that familiar smirk cutting through the shadows. Without saying a word, he swapped places, guiding me closer to Berkley as if I were a chess piece he was setting into place. I should’ve protested, told him to fuck off and let me keep my distance, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
The moonlight had poured through the window in a pale spill, lighting her hair where it fanned across the pillow. That tiny smirk on Ronan’s lips told me he knew exactly what he was doing—and that I was too weak to stop him. The smug bastard.
It took hours to fall asleep with her so close. Every breath she took brushed against my chest; every small shift of her body sent heat crawling down my spine. I lay there rigid, trying to ignore the pulse between us, trying not to drown in the scent of her skin. Vanilla and smoke. Familiar, but sharper somehow, like she had forged herself anew in the fire we both survived.
When sleep finally came, it was shallow and restless. The kind of sleep where your mind won’t let you forget the weight of what you’ve done, or who you’ve hurt. So, it’s no surprise when I wake just a few hours later, heart heavy and guilt already settling in my bones.
The house is still quiet. Ronan and Emerson are out cold, breathing steadily. The morning light hasn’t fully breached the curtains yet, but the faint gray glow is enough to show me the curve of her shoulder where the sheet has slipped down. My hand rests against her hip—when the hell did that happen? I can feel her warmth seeping into my palm, and it’s too much. Too good.
I swallow hard and try to pull back, careful not to wake her. My fingers hover above her skin like they’re afraid of what they’ll do next. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve her. Not after the way I hurt her. The memory of her blood on my hands flashes behind my eyes, and I clench my jaw until it aches.
She shifts in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and instinct kicks in before guilt can stop me. My hand settles back on her waist, holding her just a second longer. I tell myself it’s for her—to keep her steady, to keep her warm—but I know that’s a lie. I just need to feel her breathe. To know she’s still here.
My chest tightens. I close my eyes and whisper into the quiet, so low that not even the ghosts in this room can hear me. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
The words barely make a sound, but they pull something loose inside me. I force myself to let go, inching away from her heat even as every part of me screams to stay. I can’t keep taking comfort I haven’t earned. Not yet.
Not until I make things right.
I barely shift an inch before she makes a sound that punches the air from my chest—a soft, sleepy grunt that’s half protest, halfinstinct. Then her hips move, pressing back into me, and her ass fits perfectly against the hard line of my cock.
“Jesus,” I hiss under my breath, trying not to move, not to breathe, not to lose the very thin grip I have on control. Her fingers slide back in her sleep, curling around my forearm and anchoring me in place. It’s not deliberate, but it’s enough to freeze me. A touch that saysdon’t gowith no need for words.
My hands hover in the space between her body and mine, useless and trembling. Every nerve in me screams to pull her close again. I’m so lost in the battle between want and guilt that I almost miss the sound behind me—a low, sleep-choked chuckle that cuts through the quiet.
“Cuddle up, brother.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Ronan smirking at me, his hair a wild mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. His hand lands on my shoulder, hard enough to jolt me, and then sits up, rubbing at his face.
“This,” he mutters, voice rough and low, “is the first step in forgiveness.”
I swallow hard, throat thick with emotion I don’t know how to name. “Do I deserve her forgiveness?” I manage, though it comes out more like a rasp.
He looks at me, really looks at me, all the humor in his eyes softening into something painfully sincere. “Not from her, Ro. From yourself. She’s already forgiven you. You’re the one holding on.”
The words hit like a gut punch. I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest. He’s right. Fuck, he’s always right when I least want him to be.
Another slap lands on my shoulder, lighter this time, and then he’s crawling out of bed, stretching as he stands. He’s only in his briefs, tattoos sprawling across his back and arms, muscles moving under ink like shadows.
“Where the hell are you going?” I ask, half hoping he’ll sit back down and stop leaving me alone with the mess inside my head.
He glances over his shoulder with that trademark grin that usually means trouble. “Kim’s gonna be up soon,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “And I’m not risking Em’s cooking again. You?”
That pulls a quiet laugh from me, the sound almost foreign after the week we’ve had. “Yeah, good point.”