Page 102 of Mended Fences

He left my underwear in place, tracing the edge with his finger. The restraint in his movements was maddening. I knew he was holding himself back, maintaining that careful control.

“Chase,” I pleaded.

“Patience,” he murmured against my skin, pressing a kiss to my throat. “Let me worship you properly.”

When he finally slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, finding me wet and ready, the satisfaction on his face was worth the wait. He stroked me slowly, learning me again, finding the rhythm that made my breath catch.

“There,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Right there.”

I clutched at his shoulders as he circled that spot, building pressure with maddening precision. All the while, his eyes never left my face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every parted lip and furrowed brow.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, his voice rough with restrained desire. “Carrying our baby, coming apart in my hands.”

His words pushed me closer to the edge, and I moaned.

“Shhh. Gotta be quiet, Sweetness. You wouldn’t want my mom to hear you come, would you?”

I felt the tension building, that familiar coiling deep inside. Chase sensed it, too, increasing the pressure slightly. Waves of pleasure washed over me as I buried my face against his shoulder to muffle my cries.

Chase held me through it, his movements slowing, drawing out every last tremor until I was boneless and breathless.

The quiet, “Thank you,” he whispered against my neckcaught me off guard. I should’ve been the one thanking him—for the mind-blowing orgasm after months of getting myself off, which absolutely didn’t compare.

But the more I thought about it, the more I understood.

He wasgratefulto be able to touch me, to care for me. To him, I wasn’t a possession to own; I was a gift.

Chapter Thirty-Six

ELENA

Now, December 2024

Last Christmas Eve,my skin was a canvas of bruises—fresh ones blooming in violent violets, the fading ones stained with the sour yellow of rot.

The moment Peter found the bedroom door locked after the fight—the one that had me pulling up Chase’s contact and hitting the call button—he beat the ever-loving hell out of me. It was so brutal, he called in sick for me himself, claiming I’d come down with a stomach virus and that a private physician had already been by. No one questioned him. Not with his sterling reputation, not with the millions his family poured into the hospital each year. I vanished for two weeks, and no one batted an eye.

This year, I was divorced, pregnant, and spendingChristmas Eve with the brother I hadn’t known existed until a few months ago.

Rhett and I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, trading gifts pulled from beneath the tree, the fire casting flickers of light across the room. He’d flown in late last night and was heading back to Montana tonight, but he’d insisted on coming—even if it was just for a day.

Cinnamon rolls were baking in the oven, their sugary scent curling through the house. It was an idyllic scene, but oppressive sadness threatened to seep in.

I missed my mom, and as grateful as I was that Rhett had come to visit today, I hated the idea of waking up tomorrow on Christmas morning alone.

I handed Rhett the final gift I had under the tree for him. The first two were the kind of silly gifts you get someone you barely know: a Sable Point magnet and a T-shirt that read,Been Doin’ Cowboy Shit All Day.

The third, though, was something I hoped he’d love, something I hoped he’d use. Rhett peeled back the silver snowflake wrapping paper to reveal a leather-bound journal with his initials engraved on the front.

During our very first meeting, my brother had proclaimed it only fair that I know his deepest, darkest secrets since he’d read about all mine. Looking at him now, sprawled on my floor in flannel lounge pants and a worn Montana State sweatshirt, dark hair still messy from sleep, it was hard to reconcile this relaxed version with the imposing cowboy who’d shown up on my doorstep months ago.

While his wounds were more emotional and inflicted by those closest to him unintentionally, they’d affected him profoundly.That was the thing about pain and trauma—it was all relative to our lived experiences.

For Rhett, the soul-crushing pain of watching the woman he loved get engaged to his best friend had nearly crippled him. But he’d smiled through it, congratulating them both and playing his part as their best friend.

To get through it, he wrote down every word he wished he could say out loud but didn’t dare to on whatever scrap of paper he could find, then promptly lit it on fire. It had become a sort of ritual, to set his feelings aflame.

“I thought you might like to write down some of what you’re feeling and hang on to it,” I said. “You never know when future-you might need to consult past-you.”