Page 19 of Crushed Vow (Broken Vows #2)

I’m not sure how long I stood before I gave in—walked quietly back to the window. Just one more look.

He hadn’t moved.

Just sat there.

Hands on his knees.

Head tilted like he could feel me watching.

And somehow... I think he could.

That night, I tried to sleep.

God knows I tried.

But my body was exhausted. My soul was worse.

But my thoughts kept spinning, chewing through the silence like wolves.

All I saw was fire.

The way Cassian had burst through the smoke—eyes covered, arms outstretched, like he was born from it.

The way he ducked me just as a beam collapsed.

The way our lips brushed—soft and terrified and real—as he shielded me from flames meant to kill us both.

I kept whispering to myself, “ Don’t think about it. Don’t feel anything. He lied. He killed your mother. He punished you.”

But it’s hard not to feel something... for someone you love.

Even when you want to hate them.

Even when you should.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under—but not into rest.

Into memory.

Into hell.

I was in the ward again.

Cold white walls. Screams behind closed doors. The sharp scent of antiseptic and old blood.

Doctor Hargrove’s voice pierced the air, calm and cruel.

“Resist, and we restrain you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I sobbed. “Please. Please don’t touch me—”

Steel cuffs bit into my wrists.

Another needle. Another silence.

Then came the darkness again. That awful darkness, when I didn’t know my name, my face, or if I was even still alive.

And then—I was back in the chair. The padded one.

The one they strapped me to for twelve hours a day.

I screamed.

Thrashed.

Begged.

“I’ll be good! Please! Don’t take my memories again—please! I want to go home—I want to go home —”

I thrashed out of sleep with a sob, my whole body shaking, drenched in sweat.

Everything was wrong. My room was wrong. The air felt thick and sterile like the ward again. I couldn’t breathe.

I hurled the nearest lamp across the floor. A framed photo crashed down beside it. I was gasping now, clawing at my skin, trying to wake myself up, trying to find the door.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. My hands flailed for the corners of the room, my knees dragging me backwards, frantically knocking over the lamp as I crawled into a corner.

I’m still there. I never left. They came for me again.

The door creaked.

Footsteps.

No.

They’re back.

My chest heaved as I backed into the corner, throwing a pillow like it might save me.

“Stay away!” I screamed. “I’ll fight this time, I’ll fucking fight, you can’t take my mind again—”

The door opened slowly.

And then—

A familiar voice.

“Charlotte?”

No. No.

That was his voice, but he wasn’t real. It’s another trick. Another illusion.

“It’s me. Cassian. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I shook my head, hands clamped over my ears. “No, no you’re not real. He’s dead. You burned. You’re not real.”

I covered my ears. Curled tighter. Eyes shut. Rocking like I used to.

Please wake up. Please. Wake. Up.

“I’m not Hargrove,” he whispered, closer now. “You’re not there anymore. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

My eyes squeezed shut. “Go away. Please—Doctor Hargrove, I’m sorry—I won’t fight next time—just don’t—don’t come closer—”

I kept my eyes closed.

I didn’t want to see white walls again.

But then—there was a warmth. Not forceful. Just... there.

His hand. Hovering near mine.

“I came to check on you,” he whispered, his voice cracked and low. “I heard you screaming. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Still, I didn’t move.

“I’m kneeling, Charlotte. I’m not touching you. Just let me help you come back.”

Come back.

His voice trembled slightly. That was new. The mighty Cassian Moretti, uncertain. Gentle.

“Do you feel the floor beneath you? You’re not in the psych ward. You’re in your room. In your own home.”

I whimpered again, unsure, until—

His hand gently brushed the edge of mine.

It wasn’t a grip—only a gentle touch.

So real. So warm. So heartbreakingly safe.

I opened my eyes, only a sliver at first—light bleeding through the haze of fear and memory.

There he was. Kneeling. Barefoot. Shirt rumpled. Glasses skewed. Hands trembling.

“It’s Cassian,” he said again. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m right here. Just breathe with me, okay?”

His words cut through the fog like a wire. Tears rolled silently down my cheeks.

I opened my eyes—blurry, terrified—and saw him.

Smoke-smudged glasses. Unseeing eyes. But steady hands. Kneeling before me with more patience than he ever had in his life.

I broke.

“You came?” My voice cracked.

He nodded. “Always.”

I let out a broken sob, my body curling toward him without permission. He didn’t move—just opened his arms slightly.

And I moved toward him, unable to stop myself. My body gave out the moment I reached him, collapsing into the solid warmth of his chest. I was shaking all over. Tremors I couldn’t control.

He held me.

Not with urgency or restraint, but with something slow. Careful. Like he was afraid I’d fall apart in his arms if he touched me the wrong way. Like I was something precious, something long-broken he was trying to gather up without causing more damage.

He inhaled deeply when I curled closer, his hand flexing against my spine like he could recognize me better by scent than sight.

“I thought you were him,” I whispered, voice splintering. “Dr. Hargrove. And Nurse Callahan—I thought I was back there with them.”

“I know,” he murmured, stroking the back of my head with a touch so careful it hurt. “I know. But you’re not. You’re here. With me.”

I held on tighter.

For a moment—just one—I let myself forget everything. The lies. The chains. The agony of being loved by him.

Just let myself feel the safety of a man who once broke me—now desperately trying to hold the pieces together.

His breath stirred the hair at my temple.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I swear to God, I’ve got you.”

My body trembled as the panic melted into something quieter. “Thank you, Ethan,” I whispered.

Cassian’s body went still.

So still I could feel the shift in his chest.

I pulled back—just slightly—and the storm in his face was unmistakable.

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just lifted me in his arms and carried me to the bathroom.

He undressed me gently, fingers fumbling once on the straps, pausing now and then like he was mapping me through touch alone, then guided me into the warm bath with quiet focus.

His jaw was tight. His movements were careful, but something burned behind them. A quiet storm.

Jealousy.

Anger.

After washing me clean, He carried me to the bed—but stopped short, his foot catching on the edge, his nose wrinkling faintly as he scented the soiled sheets before I could say a word.

I had wet them during the nightmare.

I turned my head in shame.

“I’ll clean it,” he said simply.

No judgment. No mockery. Just movement. He stripped the wet linens, replaced them with fresh ones, and helped me lie down.

“I didn’t mean to call Ethan’s name,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer at first. Then his lips suddenly met mine—firm, almost punishing.

My breath caught.

“Divorced or not,” he murmured against my mouth, “you’ll always belong to me.”

His thumb grazed my lower lip, possessive, almost reverent. “You were made for me, Charlotte. Every inch of you.”

“And next time you want to thank someone, say my name. Mine. It’s the only one I ever want to hear from those pretty little lips.”

The kiss deepened—emotional, angry, hungry. Like he needed to feel that I was real. That I hadn’t given all of me to someone else.

His teeth grazed my lower lip, drawing a sharp sting, and I tasted blood, metallic and warm, as he deepened the kiss, devouring me like he wanted to erase Ethan’s existence from my mind.

I gasped, my hands pushing against his chest, but my body betrayed me, melting into the heat of him.

The thin gown I wore felt like nothing under his hands.

He gripped the fabric, his fingers trembling with barely restrained fury, and ripped it apart, the sound of tearing cloth sharp in the quiet room.

Cool air hit my skin, my pulse racing as he tore my panties away, the silk shredding under his brutal obsession. “I’ll remind you,” he growled, his breath hot against my thigh, “that no matter what, you’re mine.”

My breath caught in my throat. The air between us crackled, heavy with too much history, too much pain. And still—need.

His mouth descended, grazing my sensitive skin, and I moaned, my consent spilling out in a shuddering breath.

I was already embarrassingly wet, my body aching for him despite the chaos in my heart.

A year apart, a year of pain and distance, and yet my skin burned for him, every nerve alight with need.

His tongue flicked against my clit, teasing, circling, before diving deep, a relentless invasion that made my hips buck.

“Cassian,” I moaned, my voice breaking, trying to plead for gentleness, but he wouldn’t hear it.

His teeth grazed me, and my body trembled, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

My hands clawed at the sheets, fingers digging into the silk as he sucked and licked, claiming every inch of me.

My thighs quivered, instinctively trying to close, but his hands pinned them wide, his fingers bruising my skin as he held me open.

“Cassian!” I cried, my voice a mix of desperation and ecstasy, my body shaking as the pleasure built.

My hands left the sheets, finding his back, nails raking across his skin, leaving red trails as I teetered on the edge of release.

But he pulled back, his breath hot against my thigh, his eyes blazing. “You don’t get to call another man’s name and come,” he said, his voice rough, dripping with possession.

He kissed his way up, tracing every inch like he was relearning me from memory. When our eyes met again, his were shadowed beneath the strange glasses.

“I should hate you,” I whispered, trembling.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ll take whatever you give me. Even if it’s hate—just let me have you tonight.”