Page 142 of Almost Ravaged

I am safe. I am wanted.

I asked for what I needed, and despite not knowing whether he could provide it, Mercer tried. He tried, and he succeeded. I’ve never felt more cherished than I do in this moment, with our bodies pressed together, our breathing in sync.

Waves of bliss overwhelm all my senses, bringing tears to my eyes.

When I finally come undone, it feels more like being put back together.

Chapter fifty

Noah

It’s rare that I sleep well and even more unheard of to wake up as content as I did this morning.

It helped that when I opened my eyes, I found a gorgeous redhead nestled against my chest.

It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up beside someone other than Mercer, and that’s only when I’m shamefully crawling out of a low spell.

As I lay beside her, frozen, I ran through a dozen ways to face this situation in the light of day.

Eventually I settled on just going with it.

What happened last night in the field, then in the bathroom? None of it was in character for me. At least not the version of me that’s existed for the last nineteen months. But Sawyer has this way of seeping into the cracks between my broken pieces and making me feel capable and alive.

In the back of my mind, a voice whispers that this is wrong—that I should feel guilty—that I’m betraying the woman I lost and the relationship I thought would be my forever.

But Meg’s memory is bigger, louder than that voice, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she’d be disappointed as hell in me for how I’ve barely allowed myself to live since I lost her. She’d hate the notion that the only way to honor her memory is to never move on. I can practically hear her calling me out on my shit. Telling me she’s gone, but I’m not.

What’s the point of being alive if I’m not going to live?

I feel lighter this morning than I have in a long, long time. So despite the guilt and that insidious voice demanding I cling to the memory of my wife, I’m going to follow this feeling.

Rather than try to predict what comes next or attempt to control the outcome, I’ve accepted that a lot has changed in a short amount of time, and that’s okay.

I’ll embrace Mercer’s outlandish idea and see where this path takes us. Embarrassingly, I like the thought of a buffer between Sawyer and me. It feels less risky with Merce involved.

My intention is not to hold back, but if I withdraw, if there are days—and there will be—when I can’t be everything she needs, it feels better knowing someone else will be looking out for us both.

With a quiet optimism I haven’t felt in ages, I rise and start my day.

I’m screwing on the lid to my coffee mug when I sense her.

It’s not just the soft footsteps or the way her shadow slinks into the kitchen and disrupts the morning light.

It’s her presence. Her aura. Her soul reaching out, nudging mine in warm invitation.

“Good morning,” I say as she circles the counter and comes to a stop a few feet away.

She’s wearing one of Mercer’s shirts—a faded cream and black Oasis band tee that he’s had for years. Hell, he’s probably had it for longer than she’s been alive.

I strike that thought from my mind.

Sawyer is significantly younger than me, but in age only. She’s mature beyond her years, yet soulful and patient in a way that’s rare in people even my own age.

As I note the way the threadbare fabric clings to her breasts, a little zip of jealousy smacks me in the chest. It’s gone quickly, though, once I remember that she still hasn’t returned the flannel I lent her weeks ago. My mood only climbs when I consider how, with any luck, she’ll be wearing one of my shirts the next time she stays over.

The next time.

As if it’s a given.