Page 47

CHAPTER 46

THE REASON

CASS

B eneath my iron grip, the leather encasing the steering wheel squeaks with the tightening of my fists.

The sun is only a whisper on the horizon, and despite only waking up a few minutes ago, I have never been more alert. It was the call from Shelby, working dispatch, that woke me, but what she said slipped an ice cold knife of fear between my ribs.

Images of Wilder pinned beneath rubble in the burning house assault me. It’s obsessive, the way I can’t stop thinking about his air running out, the panic he must have felt, the helplessness. They barely got him out alive, lucky to only find him unconscious and not…

I can’t even think the word. Even the whisper of it tears me open.

He’s fine. Somehow, my hands find space to squeeze the steering wheel tighter, the bones screaming. He’s fine, I remind myself again, just like I have on a loop since I flew out of bed, threw on his flannel coat over my pajama shorts and top, and stuffed my feet into my rain boots, snatching my keys on my way out the door.

He’s fine. My face is numb from the temperature and the shock as I race down Main Street, begging the truck not to break down. Why was I so stubborn about getting a car? I can’t even remember why I objected in the first place. The whole fight was trivial in hindsight. If it breaks down, I swear to God I’ll run the rest of the way. As much adrenaline as there is raging through me, I might be able to fly.

He’s fine, I chant like a mantra, knowing I won’t be able to breathe until I see him and touch him and can make sure he’s real and breathing and alive.

The sight of red and blue lights through the trees sends my heart into my throat. I whisper my thanks to my faithful old truck as I whip into the long driveway, frantically searching for him. When I catch sight of the ambulance, I skid to a stop, barely remembering to turn the truck off before shooting out of it like a rocket.

He’s sitting in the back doorway, skin streaked with soot and gaze down, the oxygen mask in his hand cupped to his face. I’ve never seen him look so small, his shoulders curled and hands clasped between his knees, his face haunted and haggard from exhaustion and strain.

Relief racks through me, destroying my composure.

“Wilder!” I call, my voice cracking.

He looks up, meeting my eyes, his face going slack with disbelief and longing. And then, he stands, rushing to meet me, catching me when I launch myself into his chest, my arms locking around his neck. He smells of embers and char, of musk and sweat, sparking an ancient quiver of recognition. Our trembling arms crush each other, my sobs choked and straining against the vise of his grip. I’m not close enough.

“I’m okay,” he says, as if to convince the both of us, his voice in tatters, ruined by the smoke. A fresh string of sobs shudders through me—he’s holding me so tight, I can’t breathe and I don’t care. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, Cass.” A hot sob chokes off my name. The words are ragged, dragged from the depths of the hell he just survived, thick with tears when he says, “I love you. I love you. I didn’t think I’d get to ever tell you. I thought… I thought I…” He shudders, swallows, whispers, “I thought I’d be gone, and you’d never know.”

Somehow my heart finds a way to break and heal and explode all at the same time, the pain sharp and hot and beautiful. “I would have known,” I sob. “I’d know. I love you too,” I whisper, repeating it over and over between kisses along his neck and his jaw and his salty cheeks until finally I find his lips, hard and grateful and desperate. It’s a kiss of assurance, of love beyond desire, a vow and a prayer.

He only breaks it to look at me, setting my feet back on the ground. His eyes never leave mine, soot-stained cheeks streaked. “I should have told you before. But I…I didn’t want to lose you because I was ready and you weren’t. But when I was in that house alone, with no way to save myself, my only regret was not making sure you knew how much I love you. I always have. I will until I’m in the fucking ground, Cassidy.”

I can’t see for my tears, my chest a shredded mess at the site where my heart once was. I whisper I love yous between kisses until there’s no more room for words.

The certainty of Wilder was inevitable from the start. I knew he was the end game when I was thirteen, and every day since. All that time I spent without him, I was only playing pretend.

This is the truest, most real I have ever felt.

When our lips part, he presses his forehead to mine. “Let’s go home.”

Backing away, I sniffle and nod and take his hand, never letting it go as we make our way around the crew. When I throw myself at Tate, blubbering my thanks, he rubs my back, giving me a tired, relieved, sooty smile and says Anytime , like it’s just another day at the office. But he hangs onto me just as tight so I know better. The next shift just came on and they’re working their way around the remains of the house to make sure there’s no lingering fire in the walls or elsewhere.

It’s not long before we’re in my truck and on our way. It’s strange to be driving him instead of the other way around, but he walked straight up to the passenger door with his gear, threw it in the back, and climbed in. It was the only time our hands broke contact, and the second I was seated next to him, our fingers were entwined again. Neither of us speaks beyond me asking if he wanted to get his truck from the station and him flatly refusing.

The house is quiet and still, the shadows still prominent despite the sky being the color of a creamsicle. As I peel off his coat, he glances at me, the corner of his lips rising a tick when he notices my rain boots. A little sound of amusement puffs out of his nose, but he says nothing, passing me to walk to our room.

When my boots are standing against the wall beneath his hanging jacket, I pad through the kitchen and into the bedroom. The shadow of his body is backlit by the window as he pulls off his tee, the creamy orange sunlight brighter here. I watch him undress without intention as I slip into our bed, still messy from my hasty exit. The simple act of him toeing off his boots strikes a feeling I can’t name. Some amalgamation of familiarity and gratitude and fortune that I know him. That he’s mine. That he’s here, and we found our way back to each other.

It’s fierce enough to hurt. Tears prick my eyes again.

He’s naked, sooty clothes in one hand and underwear in the other, striding to my side of the bed to kiss me.

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

I nod. For a long moment, he looks at me like I might disappear. A soft smile flickers across his face before he walks away to put his clothes in the laundry room so everything on this side of the house doesn’t smell like smoke within the hour. He leaves the bathroom door open while he showers, and I take a minute to breathe, change, wash the soot off my face and arms, tidy the bedroom up a little, and close the blackout curtains. I’m somehow both wired and exhausted, despite having slept. Who knows if I can actually sleep, but the thought of being anywhere but here with him makes my stomach churn.

I’m back in bed and texting with Patty when he finishes, letting them know a little about what happened and confirming they’ll bring Cricket back later than usual. When he clicks off the bathroom light and walks in, I set my phone down, chest aching at the sight of him, haunted and heavy. He slides into bed from the foot, stretched out on top of the covers to rest his head in my lap. Strong arms thread around my waist, the weight of his chest against my thighs pressing me into the mattress.

Dark, angry bruises already cover his back where he’d been crushed by his pack under the weight of debris, the rest of him mercifully intact. I want to hold him with strange desperation, but stroke his damp hair with one hand instead, the other resting on the flat of his upper arm where it’s fanned out against my hip.

The room is silent, and I’m perfectly content like this, with my fingers in Wilder’s hair and his heartbeat thumping steadily against my thigh. His breathing slows after a while, and I convince myself he’s asleep. But he isn’t. He’s trying to find words.

“I was so scared.” It’s almost a whisper, his voice raspy and hoarse. The circle of his arms grows smaller. “I’ve never been so fucking scared.”

I let the silence be what it is, tracing the line of his profile with my gaze as I continue combing my fingers through his hair.

“I’ve seen shit,” he says after some time. “I’ve seen things that will haunt me. I’ve had moments I was sure my number was punched. But nothing like this. I couldn’t get out. There was an iron tub weighing down the beams—it exploded out of the ceiling. If I’d been six feet back…” He doesn’t have to finish. Briefly, his eyes close, and he nuzzles my leg. “Our packs were going off—those things make a fucking sickening sound, Cass. A jackhammer that doesn’t quit, the alarm chirping. It’s bad enough under normal circumstances, but being trapped with encroaching fire…” A long sigh. “They should have left me the second we realized they couldn’t move the tub. I should have made them go. None of us were thinking. I didn’t even ask for the hose… it’d been knocked too far out of the way to reach. So I just had to lay there and wait. And all I could think about was you.”

Tears threaten again. My fingers slide through his hair steadily.

“When I ran out of air, I took off my regulator and prayed there was air on the ground. And I thought that was it. I filled myself up on the thought that I got to love you, that I found you again.”

The threat of tears became a promise, sliding hot and heavy down my cheeks.

“Going through all that before you would have been fucking scary. I’d have been shaken up and fucked up and traumatized, I’m sure. But now? Now I have too much to lose.” The words waver. “I was afraid in a way I’ve never felt—this time, I wouldn’t just lose my life. I’d lose Cricket. I’d lose you.” His arms ease, and he rises to his elbows where they bracket my thighs, his eyes meeting mine. “Losing you became my reason. Or maybe it was my reason all along.”

I cup his jaw, the stubble rough against my palm as tears race down my cheeks.

His face softens. “Babe, don’t cry,” he whispers, reaching up to thumb away a tear.

A muffled little laugh slips out of me, matched by his small smile, softening as I blubber. “I can’t help it—you just said all of that and I love you so much, Wilder. I loved you before, but it’s never…it was n-never like this, and you could have died in there today.” I press my forehead to his, my eyes clamped shut. “Don’t leave me here without you. I j-just found you again and I-I can’t lose you now.”

His hand cups my neck, guiding me closer. “I’m not going anywhere.” Our lips brush. “I will never leave you.” He kisses a cool streak on my cheek. “I love you,” he whispers into my mouth before taking it.

And I give it freely. Every breath is thick with him, every sweep of tongues and latch of lips a promise. Gripping my neck, he deepens the kiss, pouring himself into me, and I become a vessel for his love. But this time, I’m not empty because I’m his.

I’m filled to the brim because I’m his.

With his hand, he hooks my closest knee, shifting us both until he’s settled between my thighs, rising just long enough to grab my hips and pull me toward him. I revel in the feel of his callused hands. The crisp scent of him, the solid weight of him, real and warm and alive. I slide onto my back, reaching for him, and he fills my waiting arms, meets my longing lips, pins my hips to the bed with his. His forearm is deep in the mattress, his free hand skating across my breasts and nipples through my shirt, sending a web of electricity zinging from the tight peaks.

But it’s the way he looks at me that fills me up like only he can, his amber eyes heavy with reverence and worship and devotion. He would fight his way through heaven and earth to touch my face like this, to kiss my palm this way. And if I could not fight, I’d wait a thousand years for the chance to love him again.

We are reduced to this, to skimming hands tracing necks and cheeks, laying soft kisses like prayers of thanks on delicate skin. Until what’s soft becomes insistent, what’s gentle now fervent.

Between my thighs, he rocks, the sensation of his heat through the thin layer of satin sending a rush of blood to my core. I meet his rhythm, my nipples aching when he pulls my shirt up, the chill in the room vanquished in a heartbeat by the heat of his mouth.

Whimpering and impatient from the loss of his body against mine, I roll us over, straddling his hips. He takes the chance to pull my top off, his hands moving for my heavy breasts, palming and squeezing them both until my flesh spills from between his fingers. My hips buck at the sight of my body in his hands, at his mercy. When he notices, he holds my gaze, freeing one hand to rest at the juncture of my hip and thigh, his thumb stroking my aching clit.

Lips together, I moan at the contact, back arching into his hand on my breast. But he loosens his grip, and with the lightest touch, his fingertips circle my nipple slowly, barely grazing the peak that needs him so. I can’t stand the anticipation and descend, pressing my soft chest to his solid one, catching his lips the second I reach them. His mouth is hot and warm—I want it everywhere. The pressure of his cock spurs my hips to roll and grind, flooded with heat too hard and fast. With a greedy hand, I reach between us for his cock, stroking him through his underwear, but it’s not enough. Delving beneath the waistband, I find the slit in his crown weeping and slick it with my circling thumb.

It’s his turn to hiss and buck at the tease. My pussy clenches, ever impatient, and I let him go, planting my hands on either side of his head, stroking my clit with the tip of his crown, pinned to his stomach by the waistband of his boxer briefs. It feels so good, a surprised gasp escapes me when his mouth meets my nipple, drawing it in with his tongue. His cock slips into my shorts, the shaft nestled in my slit, his crown kneading my clit with every grind, the tip constrained by the satin. My breasts sway above him, and he strokes and licks and squeezes and moans until the vibration skitters across my skin. Every nerve, every spark of electricity in my body races toward my clit—when he lathes my nipple, pinching the other, I groan.

“I’m gonna come.”

He lets me go with a pop. “Not like this you’re not.”

Before I can register what happens, I’m on my back and he’s kneeling between my legs, spreading my thighs with his. In a flash of pink fabric, my shorts are gone, but I barely notice, my eyes locked on his cock laid flat against his stomach, half out of the waistband of his boxer briefs. I think I’m going to come just watching him reveal his shaft, his length bobbing once it’s free, his sac drawn tight beneath it. The vision of him fisting himself is too much—I lean forward to reach for him, but he catches my hands, forcing me back. He pins them over my head and clamps one huge hand. His nose is almost touching mine, our breath mingling as we pant, taking each other in for a long moment.

“You were made for me,” he says, flexing his hips until his cock nudges my pussy. “ This was made for me. It never mattered how we found each other again—it was inevitable. Because I’m yours. And you’re mine .”

“I’m yours,” I whisper, shifting in search of his cock.

He tips his head back and groans. “Say it again, Cass.”

“I’m yours, husband. ”

His gaze snaps to mine, his hips jerking—I shift so his crown slips into my heat.

The muscles at his jaw tic, his neck taut, but there’s no holding back once he has a taste. With a hard thrust, I am full, stretched tight around him, his weight crushing. I can’t breathe, but I’m too busy taking the length of him to care, too intent on his fingertips brushing my hair from my face so he can look into my eyes when he fucks me. It is slow and deliberate, the way his hips roll, the way he keeps them pressed to mine, stroking my clit from above and below, drawing my orgasm to his expectant cock.

My lids flutter closed, the pressure in my neck and chest and pussy tight and heavy and crushing me with every calculated pump of his hips.

“Look at me,” he commands, and I do, stroking his face, his hair, the mounds and curves of his shoulders and chest. His lids are heavy, his lips flattening with restraint, his cock swelling inside me.

I moan, my eyes closing again and head lolling, but he grabs my jaw, turning it back to him. He’s going to come, I feel the pulse of his orgasm building inside me.

His hand slips to my neck and squeezes, his thumb keeping my chin up. The clamp of his fist on my throat tightens, the pressure surging.

My orgasm charges, my legs clamping his waist. I grip his wrist with both hands, hanging on as he fucks me, my mouth hanging open.

“ Fuck, ” he hisses, groans, his neck strained and veins raised. Electricity races over me, sparking bursts in my vision. “Come now, wife .”

My body is not my own, my awareness contained to the fluttering grip of my cunt, milking and squeezing and pulling him deeper, deeper. My back snaps off the bed, gasping and writhing, and he’s coming on the heels of my orgasm, driving into me, neck extended and mouth open, his body tight and growling and hard. The hot spill of come removes all friction, the sensation and image in my mind triggering a new wave of pleasure. It lasts minutes or hours or seconds, I don’t know. But there comes a time when we are reduced again to hands and lips and delicate skin. And then his arms slide beneath me, the full weight of him perfectly oppressive. His heart thumps behind his sternum like the knock of a door, and mine answers, the two matching pace after a few heavy breaths.

His head is cradled in my arms and beneath my chin, my fingers toying with his hair, stroking his shoulders and arms. I wonder for the second time this morning if he’s fallen asleep, though I have no desire to move or speak to check.

“I love you,” he whispers after a while. “I won’t go another day without telling you.”

“Forever?”

He rises, smoothing a hand across my cheek. “Forever.”

When I press a reverent kiss into his palm, I hope we get our wish.