Page 29

I stir awake to the feeling of Rhett's calloused fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. The pale glow of dawn filters through the cheap hotel curtains, painting everything in soft blues and grays. His body radiates heat like a furnace beside me.

"Mornin’ darlin’," he whispers, voice still rough with sleep. Those green eyes are softer than I've seen them in years, maybe ever.

"Hey," I mumble back, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest. Even after our talk yesterday, I'm still raw, still cautious. Two years of hurt doesn't vanish overnight, no matter how sincere his apologies.

But when he leans in, pressing those full lips against mine, my body remembers what my mind wants to forget. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world. Maybe we do, maybe we don’t. But for right now?

I can’t seem to find a fuck to give.

Rhett’s hands travel down my body with deliberate slowness, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Every touch feels like a brand, marking me as his all over again. His fingertips find the scar on my ribs—the one I got falling off a horse when I was twelve—and he traces it with reverence.

"Been dreaming about this," he murmurs against my collarbone. "About you. Every damn night for two years."

I want to tell him that words are cheap, that actions matter more, but then his mouth replaces his hands and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to me as if he might disappear again if I let go.

Maybe he will. That's the thought that won't leave me alone, even as pleasure builds and my back arches off the mattress.

"Rhett," I gasp when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it," he growls, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through my core. "Not today, not ever again."

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts worse than any fall I've taken in the arena. But even as he works his way back up my body, as his weight settles between my thighs, I can't silence the whispers of doubt.

This feels too much like that last night. The tenderness, the promises murmured against my skin, the way he's touching me like I'm something precious instead of the rough, demanding Rhett I've known. It was after a night just like this that I woke up to an empty bed and a hastily scribbled note.

But my body doesn't care about my fears. It responds to him like it always has.

Rhett pushes my shirt over my head, kissing his way down my body.

I can't breathe. Can't think. Can only feel as he worships every inch of me, his mouth hot and demanding against my skin. The stubble on his jaw leaves a delicious burn in its wake.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Willow," he whispers against my hip bone. "Never stopped thinking about this. About us."

My fingers grip the sheets, anchoring myself against the tide of sensations threatening to pull me under. When he finally, finally settles between my thighs, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

The hotel walls are thin, and the rest of the Savage 8 are just down the hall. But Rhett doesn’t seem to care as he pulls my panties off, his tongue finding my center with a hunger that feels anything but patient.

He groans like he’s starved for me, like the taste of me is the first real thing he’s had in two damn years. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging in just enough to ground me, but his mouth is all reverence—soft licks, slow kisses, the kind that make my spine curve off the mattress.

I choke on his name, a broken sound I barely recognize as mine.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice gravel-low and laced with heat. "Let me have you. Let me make it right."

His tongue moves in circles, then flicks in the way he knows drives me wild, and when he slips a finger inside me, curling just right, I almost come undone. My thighs shake. My hands fly to his shoulders, clutching at him like he’s the only solid thing in this world.

Maybe he is.

"I missed this," he growls against me, breath hot and ragged. "Missed the way you fall apart for me. Missed the way you taste, Willow."

I’m close. So close it hurts. And he knows it—knows my body better than anyone ever has. He sucks my clit into his mouth and I gasp, head thrown back, tears stinging my eyes from the intensity of it.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" he whispers, dragging his mouth up my body. "Let me feel you lose it?"

I nod, frantic, helpless. My body bows beneath him as the orgasm crashes over me—hot and violent, a storm I didn’t see coming. I sob his name into the crook of his neck as he holds me through it, one hand on my cheek, the other curled around my waist.

"You okay?" he breathes, kissing the corner of my mouth like I’m something breakable.

I nod again, dazed. "Yeah. Just—yeah."

He strokes my hair, brushing sweat-damp strands from my forehead, and I swear he looks at me like I’m holy. Like I’m the goddamn reason he came back to life.

"Good," he whispers. "Because I’m not done worshipping you yet."

He slides inside me slowly, inch by aching inch, and it’s not just physical—it’s soul-deep, the kind of connection that makes everything else blur. His forehead rests against mine, his breath catching as he bottoms out.

"You feel like home," he says, voice cracking. "Always have."

And just like that, I’m wrecked all over again.

Rhett doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried deep, breathing like he’s trying not to fall apart.

His hand cups the back of my head, thumb brushing behind my ear as if he’s memorizing the shape of me all over again. And maybe he is.

Maybe I am, too.

When he does start to move, it’s slow. Deep. Every stroke is deliberate, like he’s trying to carve his name into my soul. My legs wrap around his hips on instinct, anchoring him to me, as if I could ever let him go again.

“Jesus, Willow,” he groans, voice wrecked. “You always took me so good. Like you were made for me.”

He rocks into me with slow, punishing precision, every thrust brushing that perfect spot inside me, making my breath hitch, my nails bite into his back.

“I dreamed of this,” he rasps against my throat. “Every night. Touchin’ you, holdin’ you like this. But I never let myself finish. Not once. Couldn’t do it without you.”

My heart cracks wide open.

I turn my face, mouth finding his, and we kiss like it’s the only truth we’ve got left. Messy. Desperate. Too much and not enough. I taste the salt of his tears before I realize I’m crying, too.

He kisses the wetness from my cheeks. “Don’t cry, darlin’. I got you now. I swear I got you.”

No“Rhett—please—” I don’t even know what I’m asking for.

But he does.

“Come for me,” he whispers. “One more time. Just you and me, like it’s always been.”

He doesn’t stop kissing me—my lips, my jaw, my neck—as he slows, as the waves finally pull back and leave us trembling in the wreckage.

We stay like that, tangled and breathless, hearts pounding against each other in a rhythm that feels like home.

“Don’t disappear on me,” I whisper, voice hoarse, vulnerable.

He lifts his head, those green eyes shining with something fierce and raw. “I’m done runnin’, Willow. Done hurtin’ the only thing that ever made me want to stay.”

He presses a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. “This is it for me. You’re it.”

I feel it before I can name it—that bone-deep ache that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.

Like I’m the only goddamn thing that’s ever mattered.

His arms curl tighter around me, like he can sense the way my walls are trying to creep back up. “Don’t pull away from me, baby,” he says, kissing the shell of my ear. “Not now. Not when I finally got you back.”

I bury my face in his neck and breathe him in. Sweat, whiskey, hotel soap, and that familiar scent that’s always just been Rhett. It hits me in the chest like a kick.

“I don’t know how to do this again,” I whisper. “I want to, but… what if it breaks me again?”

His hand drifts slowly down my spine, soothing, grounding. “Then we rebuild you. Piece by piece. Together.”

He shifts us, pulling me gently on top of him. My thighs straddle his hips, our bare bodies still slick with sweat and heat, but it’s not about sex now. Not really.

It’s about us .

His hands slide up my back, rough palms dragging softly across my skin like he’s relearning it, like he’s praying with his fingertips. I watch him as his eyes roam my body, unhurried, reverent.

“You’re even more beautiful now,” he says quietly, one hand brushing the line of my jaw. “Stronger. Fiercer. But still you. Still the girl who used to steal my flannels and sleep in my truck bed when the world got too loud.”

“And you’d always find me,” I murmur.

“I always will,” he promises.

I dip my head, kissing him slow, lazy, deep. There’s no rush now. Just the soft slide of lips, the warmth of shared breath, the silence that says more than words ever could.

When I pull back, his hand slips between us again, fingers brushing where we’re still connected, and I gasp.

He groans. “I can feel you still squeezin’ me, sweetheart.”

My cheeks flush, but I don’t look away. “I never stopped craving you.”

“Then let me give you more.”

He rolls us again—gentle but firm, like he knows I need him to lead now. He’s still hard and when he slides back inside, it’s slower than before, deeper, like he wants to touch the part of me no one else ever has.

This time, it’s not about need.

It’s about love.

His forehead rests against mine. Our breaths sync. Our hands lock. And he makes love to me like it’s a vow.

He doesn’t rush it—just rocks into me with those long, languid thrusts that draw out every ounce of pleasure. The kind of rhythm that feels like a conversation, a memory, a promise.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making up for what I did,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of my nose. “Every day, every damn night. I’m yours, Willow. Always have been.”

My heart shatters wide open.

I come again with a cry muffled into his mouth, and this time, when he follows, I feel it in my soul.

We lie there after, tangled in each other, the soft sound of our breathing filling the quiet space. His hand rubs lazy circles on my hip. My fingers rest over the ink on his chest.

“I’m scared,” I whisper. “Of trusting this again.”

“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to my hairline. “But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? I’m not running when things get hard. I’m not that same man, Wills. This is a new beginning. Our new beginning.”

I close my eyes. Let myself believe.

Just for this moment.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.

The room is quiet now, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something heavier I can’t name.

Rhett’s breathing evens out beside me, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that used to lull me to sleep. His arm is slung around my waist, his face soft with sleep, one corner of his mouth curled up like he’s dreaming something good.

It should be comforting.

It used to be.

But something’s not right.

That ache I’ve tried to silence since the moment he came back—it's louder now. Clawing at the edges of my calm.

Because this? The tenderness, the way he held me like I was breakable, like he’d never forgive himself if he let me slip through his fingers? This is exactly how he touched me the night before he left. The last time.

And when I woke up, he was gone.

I slip out of bed without waking him. Grab the first hoodie I can find—his, of course—and pad barefoot across the worn carpet. The kitchenette hums with the dull buzz of the mini fridge, and the coffee maker gurgles as it brews.

I freeze when I see Weston leaning against the counter, sipping from a chipped hotel mug.

He glances up at me, mouth twitching like he already knows what I’m thinking.

“Mornin’, Sunshine.”

I huff a laugh, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “You always this cheery before coffee?”

He shrugs. “Only when I wake up to the sound of someone having their soul kissed out of ‘em through thin-ass walls.”

My face burns. “Jesus, West.”

He smirks, then gestures toward the coffee. “You want?”

I nod. He pours without asking how I take it—because of course he knows—and hands me the mug.

For a while, we just stand there. The steam curls between us. Outside, dawn creeps across the sky, soft gold bleeding through the windows.

“He’s gonna leave again,” I say quietly.

Weston doesn’t respond right away. He sips. Watches me.

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t not know it either.”

I lean against the counter, holding the mug to my chest like it can protect me from the truth.

“He was… tender,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Like he was already mourning something. That’s what he did last time. He didn’t fight, he just— left. And I was the one who had to stay behind and feel like I was worth walking away from.”

Weston sets his mug down gently. Steps closer.

“Willow,” he says, voice low and solid. “He came back. That counts for something.”

“Does it?” I whisper. “Because I don’t know if I can survive him leaving again. ”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “Then tell him that. You’ve never been one to stay quiet when something needs sayin’. Don’t start now.”

I let out a shaky breath.

Weston bumps my shoulder. “Look, Razor’s an idiot most days, but he’s not that stupid. Not when it comes to you. Talk to him. Really talk to him.”

A quiet beat stretches between us, and then he grins.

“And if he even thinks about leaving without saying something, I’ll break both his kneecaps. Real tender-like.”

I laugh, a wet, breathy thing. “Thanks, West.”

“Anytime, darlin’.”

The sound of a door opening behind us makes me turn.

Rhett steps into the room, hair tousled, shirt half on, sleep still clinging to his eyes. His gaze finds mine instantly, and there’s something vulnerable in it. Something open.

He gives me a sleepy smile. “You runnin’ from me already?”

I bite my lip.

“No,” I say, voice soft but steady. “But… Can we talk?”

His smile fades, replaced by something more serious. He nods once, slow and sure.

“Yeah,” he says. “We can.”

Rhett crosses the room in three long strides, like he’s afraid if he takes too long I’ll change my mind. His hand finds the small of my back, warm and familiar, and my body reacts before my brain does—leaning into him, craving the comfort even when my heart’s still in a war zone.

Weston clears his throat. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

He tosses me a knowing look as he slips out, coffee in hand, bare feet whispering across the carpet.

Rhett watches him go, then turns to me fully. His eyes search mine, guarded and open all at once.

“You’re scared,” he says quietly.

I nod.

“So am I.”

The air thickens between us—quiet and charged. His thumb brushes the hem of his hoodie that I’m wearing. His hoodie. Something about that grounds me.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, then just squeezes my hip gently.

“Come sit with me?” he asks.

I hesitate for half a second.

Then I nod, and let him lead me back into the bedroom, hand in hand, hearts wide open.

B ack in the room, the sheets are still tangled from earlier. The air smells like sex and sleep and whatever this fragile thing is between us.

Rhett sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. I hover for a moment, then sink down onto the foot of the bed, keeping a few inches of space between us.

Neither of us speaks.

The silence stretches long enough to become a choice.

I’m the one who breaks it.

“I meant what I said earlier,” I begin, staring down at my hands. “This… whatever we’re doing… it’s scaring the shit out of me.”

Rhett doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just waits, his stillness almost reverent.

“You touched me like you were already saying goodbye,” I whisper. “Like that night. Two years ago. When you left without warning. Without a single fucking word, Rhett.”

He flinches, but I press on. I have to. If I don’t say it now, it’ll rot a hole in me.

“You told me you loved me, and then you left. And I spent months wondering if I’d ever meant anything to you at all. I kept thinking it was me—maybe I wasn’t enough. Maybe I was too much. Maybe loving me felt like a burden.”

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. I’ve cried enough over this man to fill a damn ocean.

“I don't know how to forget that. How to trust that this time is different.”

I risk a glance at him.

He’s still silent. Still unmoving. His jaw is locked tight, green eyes unreadable.

And that silence? It hurts more than anything he could’ve said.

I stand, heart thudding in my chest. “Okay. I guess that’s my answer.”

I turn to walk toward the door, swallowing the sob threatening to claw its way out of my throat—

But his hand catches my wrist.

Not rough. Not desperate. Just firm. Real.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

I stop, back still to him. Frozen.

“I didn’t say anything,” he continues, “because I didn’t know where to fucking start. There ain’t a word strong enough for how sorry I am.”

His grip loosens, slides down to lace his fingers through mine. I let him.

“Two years ago, I was drowning. In grief, in guilt, in shit I didn’t know how to carry. And you—you were the only light I had. The only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t a monster. And that scared the hell outta me, Willow. I didn’t think I deserved you.”

I turn slowly, and he’s looking up at me now—eyes glassy, full of something deeper than regret.

“I left because I thought I was saving you,” he says. “Thought walking away was the one selfless thing I had in me. But it wasn’t. It was cowardly. It was wrong. And I’ve regretted it every goddamn day since.”

He stands, closing the distance between us. His hands cup my cheeks, rough thumbs wiping away tears I didn’t even realize were falling.

“I love you,” he says, and it breaks something open inside me. “I never stopped loving you. Not once. Not even when I tried to make myself forget.”

I let out a shuddering breath. “Why now?”

“Because I finally got my shit together. Because losing you once was hell—and I won’t survive it again.” His forehead touches mine.

“I’m not asking you to forget what I did. But I’m here now. And I’m staying. However long it takes to prove I mean that.”

I close my eyes.

And for the first time in two years, the fear doesn’t disappear—but it eases .

I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Soft. Slow. “I’m still scared,” I whisper.

“I know.” He kisses me back, hands sliding into my hair. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Just then, there’s a sharp knock on the hotel room door.

Rhett groans and rests his forehead against mine. “Perfect fuckin’ timing.”

I smile, breathless. “That’ll be the chaos parade.”

His eyes flick to the clock. “We gotta get movin’. Black Spur waits for no man.”

And just like that, the moment shifts. The world starts spinning again.

We dress in comfortable silence, exchanging soft glances, brushing against each other on purpose. There’s something new in the air now. Not tension. Not fear.

Hope.

I tie my hair up as Rhett pulls on his shirt. He moves like a man who knows exactly what he wants and is done running from it.

Before we leave, he catches my wrist again—this time just to pull me into one last kiss. It’s quick, but it makes my stomach flip all the same.

“We’re good?” he asks quietly.

I nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

The second Rhett opens the door, chaos floods in like a damn hurricane.

“ Bout time, ” Logan mutters, shouldering past him with a bag of protein bars in one hand and a boot in the other. “Some of us are tryin’ to hit the road today , not after your third round of morning sex.”

I blink.

“Are you seriously holding one boot?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t find the other. Might’ve left it on the vending machine.”

“Why?” I ask.

Logan doesn’t blink. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Before I can reply, Levi storms in next, looking like he just rolled out of a dumpster with yesterday’s shirt on inside out.

“I swear to God, if y’all used my face towel for your little lovefest—”

“It was a hand towel, ” Rhett says without missing a beat.

Levi freezes. “You didn’t. ”

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh.

Jace strolls in behind them, sipping black coffee like he’s above the nonsense. “You people are disgusting,” he mutters, then tosses me a wink. “Morning, Willow. Glowin’ like a firefly.”

“Oh my god,” I groan.

“You know it’s true,” Kade adds, lugging in two duffel bags like they weigh nothing. “The walls are made of tissue paper, and Razor’s got a mouth like a sinner on his knees.”

“ I’m right here, ” Rhett deadpans.

Knox with a smile until he hears the direction this conversation is going. He holds up a hand like a traffic cop. “Nope. Not today. Not ever.”

Everyone goes still.

“I do not need to know what my little sister sounds like when she’s—” he shudders dramatically. “Nope. Just nope. I’m gonna shove coffee grounds into my ears and pretend I was born an only child.”

Logan snorts. “Too late. Her soul left her body, man.”

“I will fistfight all of you,” Knox threatens, dead serious.

Jace, without looking up, adds, “The walls are made of tissue paper, and Razor’s got a mouth like a sinner on his knees.”

“ I’M RIGHT HERE, ” Rhett says again, louder this time.

“Exactly,” Weston says, cracking open a bag of chips. “We say it with love.”

Knox mutters something about bleach and brain damage, already regretting ever introducing me to Rhett in the first place.

“Don’t forget the concern,” Levi says, walking in last with the quiet calm of someone who’s been wrangling this circus for too long. “We were two minutes away from sending a wellness check.”

Rhett slings an arm around my shoulders, smug as hell. “Just well enough, thanks.”

Someone chucks a rolled-up sock at his head. No one admits it.

The suite turns into a flurry of movement—bags getting tossed, boots flying, someone yelling about lost keys and another arguing about who drank the last of the “good” coffee. Logan finds his missing boot in the fridge. Levi finds his dignity not at all.

“Shotgun!” someone yells, and five voices respond with variations of “ Screw you, I called it first! ”

I watch the chaos unfold with a grin tugging at my lips. It’s loud. Crude. Completely inappropriate.

But it’s home.

Rhett leans in close, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “Still nervous?”

I nod. “Always.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Means you’re payin’ attention.”

Then he kisses my cheek, grabs my bag like it weighs nothing, and shouts over the madness, “Let’s ride, boys!”

And just like that, the Savage Eight explodes into motion, the hotel suite emptying like a mini stampede. I trail after them, heart thudding with something that feels an awful lot like joy.

Nervous or not—I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.