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I was holding it together, trying to make sure my grandfather was okay. But something about those three words gets me. Slicing through my restraints. Snipping the cords holding me standing.

Sam waltzed in and took care of everything.

And now, in the safety of the quiet aftermath, I break.

TWENTY-NINE

Sam

Icatch Olivia before she crumbles to the ground. One question and her feet give out. Tears steam from her eyes, and she's sobbing. It's like a cord has snapped and, suddenly, she's gone from keeping it together to a full-on meltdown.

Scooping her up in my arms, I move through the apartment until I find the bedroom that I'm certain belongs to her. Her body is trembling against my chest, tears soaking through my shirt, warm against my skin.

Laying her down on the bed, her fingers grip my shirt, reluctant to let go. I don't pull away, instead I tug her close to me and let her cry into my chest.

"I've got you," I murmur.

The small bedroom is sparsely decorated. We sit on a wrought-iron bed frame with pale purple sheets and an old duvet. There's a stack of boxes in the corner and an open suitcase with clothes hanging out. I don't think she ever truly moved in. I wonder how long she was here before I took her to my place.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice hoarse from all the crying. "I can't?—"

"Don't." I sit on the edge of the bed. "Don't apologize."

I think she needed to break. Holding everything in all the time is impossible. And maybe I've pushed her too hard, put her in a situation that's added more stress to her life. She's still panting through her tears like she can't catch her breath.

She's falling apart in front of me, walls crumbling, and I'm the last person who should be here to witness it.

"Breathe," I order, mimicking the slow breathing I want her to do. She's about to hyperventilate herself to death.

"Breathe," I demand again, my palms finding each of her cheeks, forcing her to look at me as I breathe.

Slowly, she comes to, mimicking my breathing until her own slows down.

"Good girl," I praise her, causing her cheeks to turn pink.

She likes when I call her agood girl. She likes my praise, my touch, my control. And something sick twists inside me, because I want to give them all to her. I want to give her everything.

"I can't handle my head," she says, her voice faint. "It's too many thoughts, and I can't organize them. I just need it all to stop." She looks at me with teary eyes. "Help me."

Those two words do something to me. She's been so strong since the day I've met her, not once asking me for any kind of help.

And now she's in front of me, her eyes pleading.

"What do you need?" I ask.

"I need you to shut my brain off."

The way she's saying it makes me think she wants something more, and my cock springs to life at the thought of giving it to her. But she doesn't know what she's asking for right now; she's upset, vulnerable. And I'm not about to take advantage of her.

"Please," she whispers, her fingers clutching into my arms. "I need you."

The last bits of control I have snap one by one in quick succession.

She needs me.

Who am I to deny her?

"Olivia." It takes everything in me not to tear her clothes off. "What are you asking for?"