Page 55 of Captivated (Salvation #3)

Chapter Forty-Seven

“Nate, for God’s sake, breathe.” That was Sol.

Nate’s chair lay sideways on the floor, his coffee seeping into the cracks of the wooden boards. But none of it mattered.

None of this fucking mattered because of that photo.

“He replaced me.” Nate’s voice was shredded, unrecognizable to his own ears. “He replaced me.” He stumbled backward, hitting the countertop behind him.

Sol and Zeeb were on their feet, moving toward him, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Nate couldn’t tear his gaze away from Steve’s phone.

Look at them. Happy family. Perfect teeth, perfect smiles. All of them standing in front of some fucking church in Oregon he didn’t recognize. His parents, his two sisters, adults now…

And a man Nate didn’t know from Adam.

“I gotcha.” Zeeb’s strong arm was around him, his voice low.

Sol picked Nate’s chair up and righted it. “Sit down, please.”

“Who is he? Who the fuck is he?” Nate fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for his phone, opened a search engine, and typed his dad’s name, his fingers trembling.

“Don’t do this, not now.”

Nate barely registered the beseeching undercurrent in Zeeb’s voice.

“Nate, give me that.”

He jerked his hand out of Sol’s reach. “No. I have to see for myself.” His voice cracked. He slid his finger over the screen, scrolling until he found what he was looking for.

There it was, that damn photo.

Then he read what was under it in small letters.

Nate’s throat seized. He couldn’t hear anything over the roar in his ears.

“Caleb Streeting with his wife Emma, and their children, Belinda, Naomi, and Nathaniel.” He choked the words out.

He stared at the man standing beside his father, Dad’s arm around his shoulders.

“He… he even looks like me. What did they do, go to rent-a-kid? Search through all the orphanages and youth homes until they found a boy who could pass for me?”

Lord, he hurt. The pain was so acute, it felt as though someone had stuck him with a sharp object.

Yeah, that would be my biological dad, sticking a metaphorical knife in my back.

“I have fucking had enough .” He pushed the words through gritted teeth, loud and harsh in the quiet space.

“I never wanted to be found.” His chest heaved.

“I’ve spent years— years —building a life that has nothing to do with him.

With them .” He stabbed at the photo with his finger.

“I clawed my way out of the wreckage that man made of me.”

No one moved. Nate couldn’t even hear them breathe.

“And now he’s out there pretending it was all for my own good ?” He shoved the photo into everyone’s face. “This fucking piece of shit is telling people he saved me?” Nate hurled the phone, and it smashed into the far wall, breaking into pieces that skidded across the floor.

Zeeb was staring at him as if he were some wild animal, and maybe he was. His throat felt raw, his vision swam. Nate stared at him, his stomach roiling.

“He broke me, Zeeb!” he screamed. “He sent me away like garbage. Locked me up with people who made me hate everything I was, who told me my body was disgusting, that loving another man was a disease.” He gulped. “I begged him to bring me home, to at least visit me, and he never came. Not once.”

The faces of the men around the table were pale, their eyes wide. Even Butch’s usual sharp tongue had been silenced.

“And now there’s some other kid —some stand-in.

And the whole country’s supposed to believe that’s his son?

That he has a happy ending? That he’s running for office to protect families ?

” Nate choked out the words. “He lied . He erased me and now he’s lying about it to the whole goddamn state . The country .”

Something collapsed in his chest, something fragile that had only just been stitched back together.

“I want to end him,” Nate whispered, his hands shaking.

“I want to walk onto the news and tell the whole damn world who he really is. I want to rip his lies apart until he has nothing left. No campaign. No platform. No fake son.” He locked gazes with Zeeb.

“I want him to feel what I felt. I want him to lose everything.”

Zeeb thought he’d seen Nate at his lowest ebb. This was a whole new level.

Nate was a violent storm, raging, burning, scarcely holding himself together. Every word he spoke seemed to rip apart old wounds, still raw beneath the scars. He was trembling, his arms rigid at his sides, almost as if he was trying to stop himself from falling apart.

Zeeb gripped his shoulder. “Nate.” He kept his voice soft.

Nate didn’t hear him.

“I could go public,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Write a letter to the paper. Hell, show up at his next rally and call him out. That would destroy him. There’s time. The election isn’t until November.”

“You could do that,” Zeeb said in a gentle tone. “But it won’t fix what he broke.”

Nate froze. Gaped at him. “So what, I’m just supposed to sit here and watch him lie ?”

“No. You speak your truth.” Zeeb took a deep breath. “But not like this.”

“Zeeb’s right,” Sol murmured, and Zeeb threw him a grateful smile.

Nate stared at Zeeb, his eyes rimmed red, his jaw clenched. “Then how?”

Zeeb withdrew his arm and cupped Nate’s cheek. “Not as a weapon. As you . The real you. The man who made it out. Who found strength no one thought he had. That story... that’s what matters. That’s what the world needs to hear. You , not him.”

Nate’s lip trembled, but he looked away.

Zeeb had to get through to him.

“If you do this for revenge, he still controls the story,” he said quietly. “But if you do it for yourself, for others like you? Then you take the power back.”

Then he watched Nate fold in on himself, his rage giving way to exhaustion. His knees buckled and Sol caught him before he hit the floor. The others watched the proceedings in silence, their eyes filled with compassion.

“I got him,” Zeeb said, his voice low. He put his arm around Nate and drew him close, feeling his shudders.

Nate buried his face in Zeeb’s chest.

“I hate him,” he sobbed. “I hate him so much.”

“I know,” Zeeb murmured, holding him close. “But you’re not him, Nate. And you don’t have to become him to undo what he did. You already have, just by livin’. By lovin’.”

Nate said nothing for a moment, and relief swamped Zeeb when Nate’s tremors died, leaving him still in the circle of Zeeb’s arm.

He craned his neck to gaze at Zeeb. “You really believe that?”

“You bet your ass. You’ve overcome worse than his bullshit.

And you’re ten times the man he’ll ever be.

” He pressed his lips to Nate’s forehead.

“Hate isn’t good, sweetheart. Sure, it can fuel you—for a while—but if it hangs around longer than that, it can eat you up.

So you need to rise above this. Leave it in the dirt where it belongs, and live the life you were always meant to live, the one he and those fuckers at that camp stole from you. ”

Nate’s chest still heaved, but his expression was calmer. “You make a lot of sense, anyone ever tell you that?”

Zeeb smiled. “I have my moments.”

Inside he rejoiced. Nate’s storm had passed, easing into silence. His phone lay in pieces on the floor, but the man in Zeeb’s arms wasn’t broken.

Not anymore.

Nate straightened and wiped his eyes. He glanced at the hands and the three guests. “I’m sorry.”

Butch stared at him. “Are you for real? You have nothing to be sorry for, you hear me?”

“What Butch said,” Walt muttered. “Fuck, Nate, you’re amazing, you know that?”

“Strongest man I ever met,” Zeeb murmured. He patted Nate’s arm. “Let’s go outside and get some air.”

“Good idea,” Sol affirmed.

Nate nodded. He stood, a little shaky, and Zeeb walked with him out of the bunkhouse and into the sunlight.

“I think I just ruined everyone’s breakfast,” Nate said, his voice quavering.

Zeeb snorted. “It’d take more than that to stop those guys from eating. Right now they’re wolfin’ down every scrap of Matt’s food like they ain’t gonna eat for a month.” He paused. “Wanna go back to the cabin?”

Nate shook his head. “Can we go to the stable?”

He smiled. “Sure. Sorrel will be real happy to see his favorite human.”

Nate cocked his head. “Are you all right? You’re not in pain?”

“I’ll sit on a hay bale while you ‘n’ Sorrel talk.”

The horse would probably make more sense than Zeeb would.

They walked slowly, Zeeb aware of his aching body. It was finally sinking in that Robert, Teague, his doctor… they all knew what they were talking about.

I need time to heal.

Maybe it was also time Zeeb did as he was told.

Inside the stable the air was filled with the sweet scent of hay, the musky odor of the horses, and the smell of leather. Zeeb grabbed a blanket and spread it over a bale. He sank onto it with a sigh.

It’s come to something when I feel relieved just to sit.

Nate wandered over to Sorrel’s stall. The horse regarded him, his head low, his tail flicking lazily. Nate didn’t go in, but leaned on the gate and studied Sorrel.

The horse twitched an ear toward him.

“He knows you’re all wound up,” Zeeb observed.

Nate inhaled deeply. “He’s right.” Then he shuddered out a breath. “I’m okay now. Well, I’m getting there.” He reached out to stroke Sorrel’s nose, and it wasn’t long before the horse took a step toward him.

Zeeb watched, his heart a little lighter. “There. That’s better.” He noticed the leather bracelet around Nate’s wrist. “You still wear that?”

Nate frowned for a second, then his brow smoothed out. “Of course. You made it for me.”

Zeeb could see he was calmer, but now there was something else, a restlessness that told him Nate’s mind was working on a problem or trying to solve a dilemma. Zeeb knew the signs by now.

Nate said nothing for a minute or two, his attention focused on Sorrel. “You remember that piece you wrote? The one you emailed me?”

“About Mirror Lake. Sure.” Zeeb smiled. “You said it was beautiful.”

“What kind of things did you write when you were a little boy?”

“Fantasy stuff mostly. Made-up worlds. Places where people couldn’t hurt each other for being different. Then the world taught me a lesson, that I wasn’t good enough to tell stories, so I stopped trying.”

“No— your dad told you that. I think he was wrong. No, I know he was.” Nate was silent for a beat, then turned toward Zeeb, his expression thoughtful. “I also think you should start again. And I have an idea what you can work on first.”

Zeeb blinked. “What?”

“Write my story.” His voice came out firm, the words spoken with a determination Zeeb had heard before.

Usually before Nate took a giant step forward.

Then his suggestion sank like a stone dropped in a quiet lake. Zeeb looked at him, stunned. “Your story?”

“My whole story.” Nate’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel to it. “The truth. All of it. My childhood. The camp. The years afterward. All the shit I never said out loud.” He held Zeeb’s gaze. “ You write it.”

Zeeb gave a short laugh, caught off guard. “Nate, I haven’t written anything since middle school. You need a real writer. What about that guy in the bunkhouse? The political journalist? He wants to interview you. Maybe he could write it.”

Nate shook his head. “I need someone I trust. Someone who won’t try to clean it up or turn it into something it’s not. You saw me at my worst. You believed me. That’s the kind of person I want telling it.”

Zeeb stretched his legs out in front of him and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, the windows set below the rafters, light streaming in, catching the dust and making it sparkle. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. What if I get it wrong? What if I can’t handle it?”

“You won’t get it wrong,” Nate said in a firm voice. “Because you’ll ask. You’ll listen.” He shrugged. “If it takes years, then fine, it takes years. I’m not going anywhere.”

Zeeb frowned. “You really think the world wants to hear it?”

Nate blinked. “Hey, didn’t you just say in there the world needs to hear my story?”

“Sure, but I didn’t think I’d be the one writing it.”

“And okay, the world might not need it but I do.” Nate gazed at him. “And maybe some kid out there needs it too. Maybe they need to know they’re not the only one.”

His voice cracked slightly at that last part, and Zeeb felt the weight of it settle on him. He studied Nate’s face, really studied it, and something shifted in him. A memory surfaced: the joy he used to feel putting words together.

I thought I’d lost that forever.

Maybe he hadn’t after all.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll try.”

Nate didn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders bled away, and the slow exhale that shuddered out of him told Zeeb it mattered more than he was ready to say.

“I don’t want to rush it,” Zeeb continued. “If we do this, we do it right.” He gazed at Nate, his stomach clenching. “I’m gonna ask things that might hurt. You know that, right?”

He nodded. “I want you to.” He managed a half smile. “If it hurts, it’s real.” Then he went back to stroking Sorrel, communing with him.

Zeeb thought for a moment before removing his phone from his pocket. He opened a doc and typed a single word at the top of the page.

Nate .

Below it, he wrote: This is not a story about revenge. This is a story about survival.

Something eased inside him, calming him.

It’s the right thing to do.

At least it might prove cathartic for Nate.

“Can I ask a question? When I finish it—assuming I ever do—what will you do with it?”

Nate stood so still. “Publish it.”

Zeeb quirked an eyebrow. “Your dad might be in the Senate by then. This could wreck his reputation. Even bring him down.”

Nate’s gaze hardened, but there was no fire in it, only resolve. “You think the people of Oregon need a man like him speaking for them? Because I don’t. Besides, I’m not doing this to burn him down, but to lift myself up. To finally be heard.”

Zeeb nodded slowly. “I hear ya.” He glanced at the screen.

The page was no longer empty.

Neither, he suspected, was Nate.

He’s filled with a purpose. And Zeeb would do anything to help him achieve it.