Page 74 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)

Thirty

ANDY

A s we moved through the dimly lit space of the penthouse, Matt said, “Go shower and get ready for bed.” He was already loosening his tie with one hand while the other pulled out his phone. “I need to make some calls.”

“But—” I started, already imagining us peeling off our clothes, the steam of the shower enveloping us, our bodies slick and slippery with soap and desire.

Sure, he’d made it clear earlier that there would be no “strenuous activities” tonight, but I figured there was no harm in trying to change his mind.

After all, I had my ways of being persuasive.

“Business calls wait for no man,” he cut me off with a gentle but firm kiss to my temple.

I nodded, swallowing my disappointment. But for now, a tycoon’s gotta tycoon, right?

So, I took my shower solo, scrubbing away the evening’s events until the steam carried them down the drain.

Slipping into silk pajamas felt like being hugged by a thousand butterflies, and as I sank into the king-size bed that could’ve easily fit a small army—or just one Matt Caine, which, let’s be honest, was an army of charisma and muscle in his own right.

I tried to listen to his voice through the walls, that deep baritone that could probably negotiate peace treaties or at least talk someone into giving up their last piece of chocolate cake.

Instead, it murmured indistinctly but incessantly rhythmic, like a lullaby for overworked adults.

Sleep snuck up on me like a ninja in fluffy slippers.

Then the darkness came, not the gentle kind that brings dreams, but the suffocating kind that steals breath and hope alike.

The memory twisted and writhed like a living thing—metal screaming against metal, glass exploding into deadly diamonds that caught the flames’ light.

The smoke wasn’t just in my lungs anymore; it was in my soul, thick and choking.

My mother’s last scream wasn’t just a sound—it was a knife that carved itself into my bones, an eternal echo of my helplessness.

The car wasn’t just twisted metal; it was a coffin of chrome and steel, decorated with my parents’ blood instead of flowers.

The scene warped and shifted, past trauma bleeding into recent horror like watercolors in the rain.

The acrid smoke of the crash became the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as Carlos used me as his personal punching bag.

Each blow felt like another piece of twisted metal piercing my flesh.

My mother’s scream morphed into my own muffled cries, echoing off concrete walls instead of shattered windshields.

The heat of the flames became the burning in my ribs, the sticky warmth of blood replacing the slick of gasoline.

Through it all, faces swam in and out of focus—my mother’s vacant stare melting into Carlos’ cruel sneer, my father’s broken body transforming into my own battered reflection in a pool of blood on concrete.

Then Matt’s face appeared, horror etched into every line as he took in the sight of me.

In both nightmares, I was equally helpless, equally broken—a child watching his parents die, a man waiting for his own death in a forgotten warehouse.

The past and present twisted together into a grotesque dance of pain and loss, each memory feeding off the other until I couldn’t tell where one nightmare ended and the other began.

I jolted awake with a strangled cry, my hands clawing at phantom smoke.

The darkness pressed in from all sides, and for one terrifying moment, I was that scared kid again, watching everything I loved burn.

My chest heaved with desperate, shallow breaths as my eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for something—anything—familiar.

“Mom?” The word escaped like a prayer, small and broken. “Dad?”

Strong arms encircled me, and for a split second, hope fluttered in my chest like a wounded bird.

But when my frantic gaze found Matt’s face instead of my father’s, reality crashed back in.

Yet somehow, the disappointment was cushioned by relief.

Matt’s presence was like gravity itself—a force that anchored me to the here and now, pulling me back from the edge of my memories.

I collapsed against his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum against my ear.

Each strong, even thud pushed back the chaos in my mind, replaced the acrid memory of smoke with his familiar scent.

His arms around me were a fortress against the darkness, his warmth seeping into my trembling body like sunlight after an endless storm.

“I’m here,” he murmured, one hand threading through my sweat-dampened hair while the other traced soothing patterns on my back. “You’re safe, Andy. I’ve got you.”

When my breathing finally steadied and the world stopped spinning, I looked up at him with eyes that probably betrayed too much. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, embarrassment creeping in to replace the terror. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Matt’s eyes, storm-gray in the dim light, studied my face with careful concern. “You have nothing to apologize for. If you want to talk about it…”

I hesitated, the words sticking in my throat. “The accident… and Carlos. They just… merge together sometimes.”

“Andy.” Matt’s voice was gentle but firm. “I really think you should consider seeing someone. A professional. I know an excellent therapist who?—”

“No,” I cut him off, perhaps too quickly.

The word therapist brought back memories of well-meaning school counselors who’d tried to “help” after my parents died, offering empty platitudes because that’s all our poverty-stricken school district could afford.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve managed this long without one. ”

Matt’s thumb traced my jawline, his touch impossibly tender. “Just because you’ve survived without help doesn’t mean you have to keep doing so. But I won’t push. When you’re ready—if you’re ever ready—just say the word.”

I drew in a shaky breath, the weight of untold secrets pressing against my chest. Funny how trauma works—you think you’ve packed it away neatly like last season’s fashion disaster, but it keeps popping up like a persistent ex.

Matt’s hand found mine, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my palm. Those storm-gray eyes held such tenderness, such unwavering support, that my carefully constructed walls—probably as stable as my first attempt at cooking—began to crumble.

“After the accident,” I started, attempting a smile that probably looked more like a grimace, “when my parents died, Mia and I got the worst upgrade in living situations possible. Went from loving parents to Aunt Miley and Uncle Herbert—think Disney villains, but without the catchy musical numbers.”

I pressed on, my fingers curling into the fabric of Matt’s shirt.

“Aunt Miley, she was the warmth of an ice queen mixed with the charm of a DMV employee on a Monday morning. Called us worthless, said we were a burden. Used to lock us in the basement sometimes—great for developing night vision, terrible for everything else.”

My attempt at humor faltered as I continued.

“But Herbert… he was worse. The kind of monster that doesn’t hide under your bed because he’s too busy coming through your bedroom door at night.

” The words felt like broken glass in my throat.

“Started with just touching, but…” I had to look away, my usual wit deserting me.

“I made sure it was always me. Never Mia. Someone had to be the designated punching bag, right? Might as well be the one with the smart mouth.”

Matt’s arms tightened around me, a fortress of muscle and warmth. His silence spoke volumes, offering more comfort than any words could.

“You know what’s really messed up?” I let out a laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. “I got really good at pretending to be asleep. Academy Award-worthy performances, I tell you. Though I doubt there’s a category for Best Performance in Avoiding Your Creepy Uncle.”

I felt Matt’s chest rumble with barely contained emotion, but he remained quiet, his hands never stopping their soothing patterns on my skin.

“Sometimes, in the dark, it all comes back. The accident, Herbert, Carlos… it’s like the world’s worst greatest hits album playing on repeat.

” I burrowed deeper into Matt’s embrace.

“He’s still out there, you know. Herbert.

Probably still wearing those awful sweater vests and pretending to be the perfect suburban uncle. ”

Matt’s body tensed slightly at Herbert’s name, but he remained my silent anchor, letting me spill my secrets into the safety of his arms.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” I admitted softly. “Besides Mia, obviously.”

Matt pressed a kiss to my forehead, and I melted into his touch. For once, my endless supply of quips and comebacks ran dry, replaced by the simple comfort of being held by someone who didn’t need me to be anything other than who I was—smart mouth, emotional baggage, and all.

The silence stretched between us like a luxury spa treatment—not the awkward kind where you don’t know if you should talk to your masseuse, but the good kind where everything just feels right.

Matt’s heartbeat under my ear was better than any meditation app I’d ever downloaded—and subsequently deleted after five minutes.

Each steady thud was like a five-star review of life’s You’re Not In That Dark Place Anymore playlist.

Maybe it was the emotional striptease I’d just performed, or maybe it was the way Matt’s arms felt like the world’s most expensive security blanket, but something inside me clicked into place.

The darkness that had been trying to crash my mental party started to slink away like a vampire at sunrise, replaced by a different kind of heat—the kind that had nothing to do with trauma and everything to do with the grade A specimen of man candy currently holding me.