Page 210 of Indiscretion

I check in with Elliot’s on-site detail before I head to the house, where I let myself in with my key.

He doesn’t have the alarm turned on.

Goddammit, Elliot.

I know he’s surrounded by Secret Service, butfuck. What thehellis it about these two boys of mine that make them think they’re invulnerable?

That thought literally pulls me up short.

Boy,notboys.

I only have one now.

Although, in my heart, Jordan willalwaysbemyboy. I’m never going to be able to release him there and don’t want to try.

Besides, Elliot isn’t so much my boy as my pet. I think if everything else were settled he’d be happiest sitting at my feet and snuggled against me with me scratching his head like a Labradoodle.

I know he’s upstairs because the downstairs is dark and I hear the TV on in his bedroom. I silently make my way up the stairs and down the hall. The lights are off and he’s sitting propped up on pillows in bed, dual images from the TV reflecting in his glasses, but he’s asleep. I suspect he’s also naked, even though the sheet is pulled up around his waist, because he’s shirtless. In his lap and on the bed next to him, on the far side, are several thick binders, full of prep material, most likely. It looks like he was reading and fell asleep because the one in his lap is open.

I want to strip, slide into bed with him, and hold him all night long so I can wake up next to him.

He probably won’t let me do that, though.

I’m sure he won’t. The closer we get to the time for him to declare, the more nervous and paranoid he’s been acting.

Even here, his one sanctuary, terror will still grip him and prevent him from being able to relax and justbefor that long.

I could order him to marry me, quit my job working for Shae, and flip his life into one hellish commotion for a few weeks until the news cycle spins on to the next crisis or shinier scandal and releases him from that particular spotlight.

He’d let me do that.

He’d probably feel like he secretly craves me doing that.

But at some weak point in the future, when terror once again grips him, it’s more than likely he’d easily flip that around on me in his head and blame me for “making” him do it.

Ithasto be him.

It has to behimasking me to take over. All he has to do is force himself to take that step, own itandus, and heknowsit. This is not anything I haven’t said to him countless times over the years.

All he has to do is…ask.

A wave of grief-tinged anger rolls through me, making me clench my fists and want to startle him out of his sleep.

It wasneverlike this with Jordan, and that’s part of my problem now.

Everythingwith Jordan was alwayssofuckingeasy, so goddamnedperfect, and it makes me resentful once again that I feel like I’m shouldering the full weight ofusand Elliot’s sort of drifting along in my wake.

If I was a real fucking bastard, I would do that. Startle him awake, that is, his PTSD be damned.

I take a couple of deep breaths and relax my hands, shaking them out.

Elliotneedsme.

I toe off my shoes and silently strip off my blazer. That I leave neatly draped over the bench at the end of the bed. Carefully avoiding Duck, where it’s tipped over on the floor in front of the bench, I round the bed. Of course he’s not using his walker, because it’s over by the closet.

Dammit, Elliot.

Leaning in, I gently move the binder out of his lap and then carefully climb onto the bed with him, so I don’t startle him. In sleep, he snuggles against me for a moment before he jolts awake.