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His chest heaved, breath hitched and raw. His body throbbed from restraint, his need unsated, his arms shaking beneath him.
He could’ve taken the edge off. His body was still coiled, still burning. But the thought of coming alone in this sterile space, without her skin, her breath, her hands, hertruth, it turned the act to ash. Every release before her had been faceless. Functional. Shame hidden under sweat and speed.
But Grace had walked through the fire of her past,for him. She didn’t run. Shereached.She stepped through that connecting door with trembling hands and kissed him like she already knew how much it would cost her. How could he break alone now, when she had already shattered first?
He stayed insujood, head to the floor, heart in pieces.
Walking away from Grace wasn’t possible, and he didn’t know if he’d survive it ifshedid.
* * *
He hadn’t found mercy.Not in the way he’d begged for. But he had found restraint. For now, that would have to be enough.
Nash sat in the dark, body tight and throbbing. His arousal hadn’t faded, not even after kneeling, not even after praying. Grace was on the other side of that door, and every part of him wanted to walk through, bury himself in her, and forget everything else.
But it wasn’t about sex anymore.
It was about being seen. The way she’d looked at him after that kiss, like she saw not just his scars, but the man beneath. That terrified him more than any op he’d survived.
He shoved off the bed, stripped off his briefs, donned a jock and shorts, jammed his feet into sneakers, and headed for the hotel gym.
It was dim and empty. His eyes locked on the heavy bag.
He crouched, grabbed a red wrap and threaded the loop. Muscle memory took over. Around the wrist, across the hand, through the fingers.
His mind wouldn’t stop. Her mouth. Her gasp. The way she leaned into him like she hadn’t been kissed in years. His chest tightened.
He wrapped his knuckles, finished with Velcro, stood, and rolled his shoulders.
She’d looked at him like she didn’t know whether to run, or stay. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to be the reason someone ran.
He started with light jabs. The contact was empty at first. Then it built. A rhythm. A sting. Sweat rose fast.
She was everywhere. Her quiet confidence. The way she folded when overwhelmed and let him see it. Her scent. Her scars. Her trust.
He struck harder.
She’d touched his chest like it mattered. Kissed the places no one ever asked about. The way she tasted, summer rain and risk.
He pivoted into a brutal cross-hook combo. The bag rocked. His wraps bit into his skin.
But it wasn’t enough. Not when what he wanted wasn’t relief. Not a warm body. Not a forgettable night. He wanted her.
Grace wasn’t casual. She wasn’t replaceable. She was fragile and furious and brilliant, and he would not risk breaking her just to dull the edge.
He hammered the bag until his shoulders screamed, until sweat rolled down his spine and soaked through the waistband of his shorts. Until the bag rattled on its chain and his lungs burned. Chest heaving. Arms shaking. His fists dropped to his sides. Still not enough.
The ache wasn’t physical anymore. Movement hadn’t cured it. Stillness hadn’t saved him, and wanting her had become prayer.
* * *
Grace knocked onceon the connecting door, her knuckles tentative but her body anything but. Her mouth still tingled from last night, her limbs loose and trembling beneath the black lace teddy she’d found in the hotel gift shop, bought in a moment of reckless, determined clarity.
She couldn’t stay in that room after he left her. Couldn’t bear the hollow echo of her heartbeat, the suffocating silence of almost. So she had gone out, fingers trembling, legs numb, her pulse trailing after him like a thread she couldn't sever. She’d found the teddy first, then the robe, short, silky, scandalous. Then the pendant. A sunflower. Bright, delicate, fierce. Hopeful.
It hung at her throat now. A symbol of everything she was still learning how to hold.
She’d never worn anything so provocative in her life. The robe barely reached mid-thigh. Her white scars were visible. But she didn’t care anymore. They were hers. Like her red hair, like the way she craved meaning more than safety. Nash had seen them. Had kissed them like they were beautiful. Had told her she’d earned that.