Page 132 of Bitter When He Begs

He pulls in a shaky breath, the kind that catches at the end like it got stuck somewhere between guilt and shame, and I can feel the tension coiled in every inch of his body. My chest hurts just holding him like this, because I know—I know—how hard it is for him to open up when all he’s ever been taught is to shut the fuck up and push through.

“But baby,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the crown of his head, “you didn’t throw it away. You asked for help, even if it wasn’t out loud. Your boys knew. They saw you, and they showed up.”

He shifts a little, almost like he wants to argue, but I keep going before he can pull back into that self-loathing spiral again.

“I know it doesn’t feel like something to be proud of right now,” I tell him. “But it is. You made it through the hardest moment you’ve had in a long time. You reached the edge, and you didn’t jump. That doesn’t make you weak, Luca. That makes you human.”

He lets out a breath that’s more of a gasp, and his fingers curl into the hem of my shirt like he’s anchoring himself there.

“I’m not saying it’s fine that you almost relapsed,” I continue, my voice low but steady. “I’m not excusing it or acting like it wasn’t dangerous or real or terrifying. Because it was. It’s scaring the hell out of me right now, but I see you. I see that this fight isn’t over. That you’re still in the thick of it, still clawing your way through. And I need you to know it’s okay to stumble. It’s okay to fall. As long as you get back up.”

He pulls away just enough to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot, the green in his blue gone stormy with pain and guilt. “You’re not disappointed in me?”

My chest feels like it might cave in from the way he asks it. Like he’s bracing for rejection. Like he’s expecting me to pull back, to flinch away, to confirm the thing he’s always believed about himself—that he’s too broken to keep.

I grab his jaw, not hard, but firm enough that he has to hold my gaze. “Luca Devereaux, if you think for one fucking second that I’d be disappointed in you for fighting through that shit, then you don’t know me at all.”

He blinks. “But I—”

“You didn’t use,” I say, letting my thumb sweep along the side of his face. “You stayed. You fought. You let your friends catch you when you were falling. That’s not failure. That’s being human.”

He lays his head down on my chest again and a chuckle escapes him, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “I fought them, though,” he says, shaking his head. “I fucking fought Eliand Juls. I said everything I could to get out, to make them let go. But they didn’t. They loved me too loud to let me go quiet.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until I taste salt. Not because he almost slipped, but because he didn’t. Because he had his brothers there to be his strength when he couldn’t hold himself up.

I run my fingers through his hair again, waiting, letting him talk. “I told them I needed it.Beggedthem to let me go. Told them my dad was waiting for me, but they knew I was lying and they didn’t let me leave.” He lets out another breath, this one more bitter.

“They didn’t let me leave,” his voice cracks around the words and he starts to cry. I feel it more than I hear it; the way his body trembles, the way his voice wavers. “I fucking broke right there, in that shitty hotel room. I just—” His voice falters. “I hit the floor, and I just lost it.”

My chest aches and I want to say something. I want to tell him it’s okay, that he’s not weak, that he’s stronger than he even fucking realizes, but I know he’s not done.

I pull back just enough to look at him, my hands framing his face, my thumbs wiping his tears away. His expression is tight, his jaw locked, frustration and shame warring in his stormy blue eyes.

“I hate that I was that weak,” he mutters, looking away.

I hate that he thinks this makes him weak. I grip his chin, forcing him to look at me again. “Luca, you are not weak. You were hurting, and you reached for the only thing that’s ever numbed it before.” I brush my thumb over his jaw. “But you didn’t use.”

His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“You didn’t,” I repeat, pressing my forehead against his “You didn’t use and that’s fucking huge, Luca. That’s everything, andyou’re still fighting it every damn day. That doesn’t make you weak, that makes you strong.”

He lets out a shaky, disbelieving breath. “Doesn’t fucking feel like strength.”

“That’s because you’ve been carrying this alone for so long, you don’t even realize how fucking strong you are for making it this far.”

His eyes dart over my face like he’s searching for something—some kind of proof that I’m not just saying this because I feel sorry for him.

I don’t.

I never have.

He lets out a sigh and leans his forehead against mine again. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know you are, baby, and I’m so fucking proud of you.”

He leans back again and stares at me for a long time, then he presses his mouth to mine, soft and slow, no heat, just need. Like he’s trying to apologize and thank me all at once. Like he’s trying to say the things he doesn’t have words for yet.

“I don’t want to be this guy,” he says softly against my lips. “I don’t want to be the one who breaks. Not in front of you. I didn’t want you to look at me like that.”