Page 68 of Almost Rotten

More like now that his best friend is operating under the delusion that I’m his wife and is keeping tabs on my every move and sleeping in my bed half the week, we haven’t had a chance to connect.

Same diff, right?

It’s my turn to sigh. To sigh and fake a smile and lie.

“I’m great,” I say, forcing my tone to brighten. “Let’s grab Ty and head to dinner. We can catch up then.”

Chapter twenty-five

Tytus

Asilent sob gets lodged in my throat, stealing the air from my lungs. Clawing at the twisted sheets, I thrash, gasping for air.

It hurts.

Every grate. Every fucking inch of cold metal. The rusted spots I try so hard to avoid. The jagged edges where the frame is twisted.

It all hurts.

I can’t avoid it. Can’t get away. Can’t contort in any way that eases the pain.

Can’t beg loud enough or cry hard enough to make him fucking care.

Though my voice has been silenced, I’m screaming internally, crying and bleeding from the wounds covering almost every inch of my body. Rattling the bars, begging to be let out. Swearing I’ll be quiet, that I won’t ask for food again, if only he’d let me fucking out of this cage.

“Ty. Ty, please.”

Relief hits me instantly.

She’s here.

I’m not caged.

I’m not alone.

My angel—my hope and my light; my sole purpose in this life—is right fucking here.

I turn into her embrace, soothed by her nearness. “Sawyer. You’re real,” I croak. My breath rattles on my next shaky inhale. My chest burns with adrenaline and the tension still coiled tight inside me.

Sniffling, she buries her face in my shoulder. “It was just a nightmare. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

My gut sinks. We’re not. I’m fucking this up. She doesn’t want me the way I want her to. The way I need her to.

This isn’t a fucking game to me. This is real, and she’s my wife, and I need her to need me, too. Yet I can’t make her see that.

I wrap her in my arms, savoring the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin. I’m destroying us, but I’m too addicted to the little hits and the stolen touches to care. If this is all I get, then I’ll take it and I’ll push and push and push, clinging to every scrap she’ll give me.

“Mon ange,” I whisper, dragging my hands up and down her spine.

I palm her ass, then move to her hip and hitch her leg over my lower half.

Her soft stomach gives perfectly as I dig my fingertips into her flesh, anchoring myself, savoring the sturdiness of her body. I love every roll and curve this woman possesses. I love having something to hold on to. I love gripping her sides and putting her where I want her. Knowing she won’t break. Knowing she can take anything I give her.

She’s my safest place. The flickers of light against my darkness. She’s my sanity and my solace and my home.

“We’re okay,” she murmurs against my chest, one hand brushing up my arm and shoulder. When she reaches the back of my head, she scrapes her nails along my hairline, the move sending a shiver through me.

Silently, she explores, every touch lingering longer than the last.