Page 3 of Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

Chapter Three

Nolan

“Uh oh.”

I smirk at the sound of Carter’s voice, adding a few more slices of bacon onto the skillet in front of me. “What?”

“You’re cooking. It’s barely six in the morning, and you’re cooking.” He hikes himself up onto the counter beside me. “Did you not sleep or did something wake you up?”

“A little of each.” I adjust the burner before settling back so I can look at my friend. He looks just as tired as I do, his hair a mess where it sticks out of the hood he has pulled over it, his eyes weighed down with bags. “You don’t look so hot yourself, you know.”

“Rude.” His attention wavers toward the coffee machine that’s only halfway finished. “But fair.”

“Something wrong?”

He rests his head back against the cabinet with a sigh. “Yes. I’m awake.”

“Go back to sleep then.” I tilt my head, realizing I don’t remember seeing him here last night. He at least wasn’t here for dinner. “Wait, did you even sleep here? Why are you here right now?”

“Nope. Apparently, Keats called Jake, who called Travis, who decided he needed to come here at the ass-crack of dawn. He doesn’t like to leave me without saying goodbye, so he woke me up and then… woke me up.” He blushes, but his smile grows. “And then I felt all needy and didn’t want to be left behind. I wasn’t aware it was fucking snowing . Or that I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without him. The sheets in our room here don’t even smell like him.”

I nod in sympathy. “I get that. I wonder—well, Maison was gone until late last night. I couldn’t sleep until he came back. I wonder if he was doing something with the whole Keats, Jake, Travis situation?”

“Might have been.” He sighs, his eyes falling closed. “I was too afraid to ask Travis what it could be. Not sure I’d like the answer, you know?”

“I definitely know. I probably wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep once he came in if I’d known that was why he was gone.”

“They’ll retire eventually, right?” he asks, his voice going a little high with hope.

I bite my lip, not sure if I can agree with that. Maison and I have skirted around that topic of conversation. I can honestly say one thing, though. “I hope so.”

“Me too.” I catch him stealing a slice of bacon from the pile already finished and cooling. I decide to let it slide. He’s sleepy and sad, after all. Plus, he’s the man I love’s little brother. “How have things been with you and Maison, other than last night?”

“Good. Great, even. I think we’re finally settling into ourselves.”

He beams at me, not even bothering to hide the bacon in his hand. “That’s awesome! Full disclosure, Maison and I had a little talk last week. He was worried about you guys trying to figure out the whole kink thing. I’m glad it’s going well.”

“The…kink thing?” I ask, my voice wavering a little as my heart skips.

“Don’t worry.” He winks at me. “It surprisingly doesn’t gross me out. Well…I think. At least, as long as there aren’t any gross details included. The abstract concept of him being your dom isn’t gross. Especially knowing how happy you must be.”

Him being your dom.

I turn back to the bacon. It’s burning, black smoke curling into the air. I pretend the frustration from that is what makes my chest feel unbearably heavy.

Carter follows me to the corner of the kitchen where the trash is, his gaze prickling and accusing as I dump the food and head back to the stove to try again. My hand shakes as I drop a few more slices into the sizzling pan.

“Wait, are you not trying it?” Carter whispers. “I thought…”

“I don’t know why he talked to you about that a week ago. We agreed that we’d stop trying. It’s not what either of us wants. We haven’t even talked about it since moving here. I told him I don’t need it.”

He frowns, and I know without having to ask that he’s thinking about the night we sat together in front of the fireplace, admitting to the things we want. The things we thought we might need . “But you told me—”

“No.” I poke at the bacon. I can’t look at him. I’ll cry if I do. “I was wrong. What I said—I was wrong. Maison is enough, just how he is. More than enough.”

“Nolan—”

“Help yourself to the bacon,” I mumble, turning the burner off. This round isn’t even half-cooked, but there’s plenty finished on the plate he’s been stealing from. “I—uh. I need to shower. I’ve got grease all over me.”

He doesn’t stop me, but I hear a sad sigh escape him as I walk away. I try my best to ignore it as I hurry upstairs, my chest aching worse with each step closer to the man waiting for me in our room.

I was telling the truth with Carter—Maison did get in late last night. He had snuck in, kissing my temple in the dark before settling beside me and whispering, “Get some sleep, baby.”

It was still dark when I woke up again, Maison fast asleep beside me. I snuck out to try and expend some energy by cooking. It was going fine, until Carter showed up to dump a million worries onto my shoulders.

Maison told me last night that he was going to scope things out in town. I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t. Was he really even in town, or was he meeting with Keats? Is he going to need to meet with Jake and Travis too today? Is whatever this is dangerous?

And what was he doing talking to Carter about kink? I thought we agreed to let that go?

Things only get worse when I sneak into the bedroom to find the morning light casting over his body. The sight is like a knife to the gut.

He fell asleep in his jeans and hooded sweatshirt, but that’s not rare, especially if it was a rough night. Usually rough nights mean he works until he nearly drops, barely managing to crawl to bed before his body gives out. It seems to help him when he can shut his mind off on the bad days, throwing himself into tying up loose ends and tracking down slaves that Travis documented over the years so he can save them too. It’s not healthy, though, something I’ve been trying to get him to accept.

It’s not the sweatshirt and jeans—or what they might hint at—that are the knife to the gut, though.

It’s the white gauze wrapped around his hand, a little red peeking through the material along his knuckles where blood soaked through. The sight weakens my knees, tears stinging my eyes. He hasn’t made his hands bleed in a long time.

What happened? Was he just scoping out the town like he said? Did he get into a fight while out? Was he with Keats? Was he doing something dangerous?

Or is this like before, at the safehouse? Did he hurt himself? If he did, why? Does it have to do with the kink thing? Why wouldn’t he tell me he was still thinking about it? Why wouldn’t he come to me about anything bothering him? We agreed to let that go for this exact reason. Why would he say otherwise to Carter?

Maison stirs despite me not moving or making any noise, as if his Nolan-radar went off to alert him that I’m in distress. I would smile at the thought if I didn’t have worry and guilt waging war in my chest. Did he hurt himself because of me?

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice still hoarse with sleep. He reaches toward me with his uninjured hand. It’s a clear request. I stumble forward, heart in my throat, until I’m settled on the edge of the mattress. He shifts closer, pressing a hand to my cheek. “Baby? Is something wrong?”

“I—” I stop when I realize a sob is about to bubble up my throat, taking a moment to try to breathe.

It doesn’t work.

He pulls me into his chest and holds me as I cry. I’m furious with myself, wanting to be strong for him since he’s obviously the one hurting right now, but that fury only makes me cry harder. God, I’m such a fucking mess.

I decide to let my emotions play out, knowing I won’t be able to communicate with him until they’re handled anyway. Once I’ve cried myself into exhaustion, nothing left but hitched breaths and tired eyes, I sink harder against him and ask, “What happened to your hand?”

He tenses before releasing a sigh. “It was a mistake. I wasn’t thinking.”

“What happened?” I ask again, this time pulling out of his arms so I can look at him.

He flinches when our eyes meet, but he doesn’t look away. “I punched a building.”

The words hurt, almost like they slammed me against the same structure his fist hit. I have to press my hand to my chest to keep the ache at bay. “Mais…”

“I know.” He closes his eyes, his chin dipping toward his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Why’d you do it?”

He looks at me again, his lips curled into a dismissive smile. “I just got overwhelmed.”

“By what?”

“Everything,” he admits with a sad laugh. He pulls me into his arms again, settling back until we’re curled up on our sides with his head on his pillow and my head between his bicep and chest. He presses a kiss against my hair before sighing happily. “I should have just stayed home with you. You make everything so much better, you know that?”

The words make me smile like an idiot, even with my worry still lurking beneath the surface. I know I should push him on what exactly made him upset, but maybe now isn’t the best time. Maybe it can wait and I can just let myself enjoy this for a while.

He apparently doesn’t think the same. “I did something last night, Nol. Something we should talk about.”

My insides flood with ice, freezing every muscle. “Oh?”

“I met with someone. A friend of Travis—and Carter, I guess. Hunter.”

Hunter .

I know about Hunter.

Carter told me about Hunter—the dom who Carter tried to be with when he was taking a break from Travis. The dom who is now helping Travis learn the ropes.

The dom who apparently met with my boyfriend last night.

I sit up, wanting to look at Maison as he explains this to me. I realize instantly that it’s a mistake. There’s so much fear in his eyes that I can feel it reflecting in my own chest, threatening to swallow me whole. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“I sought him out, for help.”

“You sought him out,” I echo, feeling stupid but unable to help it. “You sought out Hunter—the man you nearly shot. The man who did… things with Carter. A—a dom . You sought him out.”

“Yes.”

“Last night.”

“Yes.”

I look down at his bandaged hand. “Before or after you punched the building?”

His fingers twitch. “Before.”

“Is he why you punched the building?”

He releases a slow breath. “I went to him for help. For help with… us . I wanted him to teach me how to—”

I look at his face when he doesn’t continue. His gaze is off to the side, his cheeks flushed in the low morning light.

“How to be a dom?” I whisper, not sure if I’m asking with hope or dread.

“How to want to be a dom,” he mumbles, still not looking at me. “You said it doesn’t work with us because you can tell I don’t want it.”

My stomach sours so quickly I actually press a hand to my mouth in case I vomit. The feeling passes after a few seconds, but the immense guilt remains, a hot weight in my gut and tears in my eyes.

“I don’t want you to force yourself to like something for me, Maison.” I shake my head. “That’s brainwashing. That’s just— no .”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he suddenly yells, his eyes snapping back to me. They’re just as desperate as they were before, but now they’re angry too. I know him well enough to know the anger isn’t directed at me. Once again, the man I love is dousing himself in the inferno of his own self-hatred. “We promised to piece each other together and that submissive part of you is a huge fucking piece. You can lie all you want about it not being a big deal, but it is. And I’m not making you leave it behind.”

“So, what? Instead, you’ll just take pieces of yourself out?”

“ Yes . If that’s what it takes—”

“ No .”

“I will not lose you! Do you fucking understand me?” His body is trembling so hard the headboard he’s pressed against is subtly bumping against the wall. “I will not survive losing you, Nolan. I can survive a lot, but not that. I don’t want to ever have to survive that.”

I crawl into his lap, knowing he needs reassurance before we can even begin to tackle what’s wrong with his line of thinking. He immediately wraps his arms around me, holding me tight to his chest and burying his face in my neck.

“Shh.” I run my fingers through his hair, knowing that usually relaxes him. “I’m not going anywhere, Mais. You’re not going to lose me.”

“If I can’t make you happy—”

“You do make me happy. God, Mais, you make me so fucking happy it’s almost disgusting.”

He laughs, but the sound is hollow and coated in sadness. His arms tighten around me. “You need to submit.”

“Not as much as I need you.”

“But what if you could have both?”

“Maison—”

“No,” he says quickly, stopping me before I can argue. He pulls his head back until we’re looking into each other’s eyes. His expression is different than I expected. Almost hopeful. “Hunter said he could help. He’s good, Nolan. Like, really fucking good at being a dom. He’s well-respected locally and online and travels all over for workshops and shit. He has this blog where he gives advice and teaches skills and he has thousands of followers. If anyone can help us, it’s him. He said he’d figure out a way.”

I push down the hope inside of me. It’s too dangerous. I can’t trust it. “I already told you I’m not letting you change yourself to be what I want you to be. Even the thought of that makes me sick, Mais.”

“He said the same thing—that he would never help me do that. So, if he has an idea, it’s something else.” He cups my face, a small—but real—smile playing along his lips. “What if he has an answer for us, Nol?”

My stupid heart skips in my chest.

What if he does?

“Then…” I take a moment, really considering if I want to poke this hornets’ nest of possibility again. It hurt so bad to try before, only for things to fall apart. I’ve worked hard on accepting that I won’t be a submissive again. I haven’t fully achieved it yet, but…I’ve made progress.

What if letting in this hope destroys me?

But what if letting in this hope is what gives us an answer?

“Then I want to hear it,” I decide, releasing a breath that takes at least a hundred pounds off my chest. “If he has an answer, let’s hear it. Let’s try.”

According to Maison, Hunter had sounded happy that we wanted to meet with him. Maison also said, though a little bitterly, that the man hadn’t even seemed surprised.

“Be prepared for that,” Maison had grumbled in a pouty sort of way I found both fascinating and amusing. “He’s, like…all-knowing. It’s annoying.”

I hadn’t broken the news to Maison that someone like me finds that comforting in a dominant. If you’re going to trust yourself completely to someone, it helps to feel confident they know what’s best for you. I figured that’d make the pouting worse so I’d just promised to keep an eye out for that instead.

Since we both agreed it’d be best to keep this whole… situation to ourselves, we made up an excuse about going to check out some fancy cooking store out of town to explain why we’ll be out of the house for so long—and why the guys are on their own for dinner. I try not to overthink my outfit and hair for the evening. It helps that Maison is on the bed watching me get ready, and I don’t want him to think I see the evening as some sort of date. There’s no way he’ll want to let Hunter help us if he sees Hunter as competition, and I can’t blame him for that. Not that anyone could ever be competition to him. Dominant or not, Hunter isn’t Maison, and Maison is a man I am deeply fucking in love with.

The anxiety I was already starting to feel about all of this only grows when we spend the entire drive to Hunter’s in tense silence. I want to say something reassuring, but my head feels like it’s full of cotton. Not nice fluffy cotton either, but cotton that’s been dunked in poisonous black tar, all sticky and vicious.

Maison pauses when we reach the door, turning to me and cupping my cheek. His lips are feather soft as he brushes them against mine in a kiss. It’s short. A reassurance more than anything. I place my hand over his before he can pull it away, bringing my lips to his for a second kiss. It’s just as short. Hopefully just as reassuring.

“You and me,” he whispers. “No matter what, yeah?”

“You and me.” I manage a smile. “No matter what.”

With a stuttering breath, he turns back to the door and knocks.

We only have to wait a few seconds before the door swings open. A man stands before us, backlit by the warm glow of his house lights. He’s dressed in dark, expensive jeans and a casual white shirt with the top two buttons open and the sleeves rolled up. His gaze is dark and assessing as he drags it leisurely over Maison, his smile slow-growing until it reaches his eyes and brightens his entire face. My stomach quakes at the sight. It feels like I’ve seen him before, despite knowing for a fact I haven’t.

It feels like I know him.

Like a part of me knows him, at least. The part that’s desperate to be a submissive. The part that recognizes the dominance that radiates off him in fucking waves.

“Maison,” he says, his voice warm and fluid, the opposite of Maison’s rough-around-the-edges tone. The name feels different in that voice, as if he’s saying something else, something like hope or thank you . “I’m glad you decided to come.”

Maison looks surprisingly vulnerable as he jerks his head in a nod, his hands fluttering at his sides. He doesn’t respond, just turning to look at me. Hunter does the same. The moment the man’s eyes are on me, I feel pinned. Stuck. It’s not bad, though. It’s just… something .

He steps forward, offering me a hand. The urge to kneel for him is nearly unbearable. The wanting in me is so severe, my knees buckle. I accidentally sway forward, my hand trembling as it finds his and clings like it’s the only thing keeping me on my feet. His grip is warm and firm and like an answer to a question I’ve been too afraid to ask. His free hand rests on my hip, steadying me. “Hello there.”

“Hello,” I whisper, cutting off the sir that teases along the edge of the sentence. It’d be wildly inappropriate, regardless of how strong the urge to release it may be. He’s not my sir. He never will be. I may not ever have a sir again, in fact. That reminder pops into my mind as I feel Maison shifting anxiously beside us. Hunter isn’t my anything. Maison is. Him and I—that’s the deal we just made, isn’t it? Hunter wasn’t involved, even if the world feels right just having his hand on me.

“You must be Nolan,” he says, the name rolling off his tongue in the same way it did with Maison. This time, the name sounds like beautiful or good . I shiver. He grins. “I’m Hunter.”

You’re more than that though, aren’t you?

“Hi,” I say instead. It’s safer. Just like it’s safer to put some distance between me and this man who is a walking temptation. I jerk away, stumbling back until I’m settled against Maison’s side. His hand finds mine, reclaiming it despite the way both our hands are trembling. “Thank you for, um…helping us.”

There’s a flicker of something in Hunter’s gaze, a displeasure almost, before he turns his focus on Maison. His expression returns to where it was when he first opened the door—warm and welcoming, with nothing complicated beneath the surface.

“I’m happy to help,” Hunter says.

“Yeah. Uh—thanks,” Maison mumbles, his words subdued, his gaze on the doorframe instead of on Hunter. I get the sudden feeling that Maison doesn’t want to be here. That maybe he doesn’t like Hunter as a person, but trusts him as the man who can be an answer to our problem. I hope it’s always been like that—he did pull a gun on Hunter their first introduction, after all. I hope it’s not because he can tell how badly I want to submit to the man after only knowing him for a minute. I hope it’s not because he can sense that every piece of me is begging for Hunter’s touch, begging for his control, begging for his domination.

Either way, I’ll have to keep my expressions and reactions perfectly in check. I can’t let myself ruin this chance for us. I can’t let Maison ever believe that he’s not enough for me, even if…he might not be.

God, I hate myself.

I’m the worst possible person in the world.

Maybe agreeing to this was a mistake.

Maybe we should—

“Come inside before the two of you freak out on my doorstep,” Hunter says with a soft sort of amusement that comes with kindness instead of judgment.

I keep Maison between us as we walk inside, trying not to think about how this is a bad idea. How this might be the reason Maison and I end.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Nolan.” I startle. Hunter is removing my coat for me. His fingers skim along the nape of my neck. I shiver, my eyes falling closed. “I hear you’re an excellent cook.”

W-what?

“Um. Yes, sir.”

Fuck.

Fuck me.

Fucking—fuck.

“Sorry. Not—I didn’t mean to call you— fuck .”

I can’t look at Maison.

I can’t look at either of them.

I stare at the floor, willing myself not to crumble as tears burn my eyes and bile rises in my throat.

Hunter hangs my coat up. Then he has his hands on Maison’s. I wait for Maison to tense or pull away. Maybe to even snap. Instead, his muscles relax, a shaky exhale escaping him as Hunter removes the coat as if it’s the weight of the world on his shoulders.

My eyes accidentally lock with Maison’s. He mouths, it’s okay.

A tear falls down my cheek.

“You can call me anything you’d like, Nolan,” Hunter says as he hangs Maison’s coat beside mine. “As can you, Maison. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just a word, until we all agree to give it meaning.”

If only he knew just how much meaning that single word has to me, regardless of his opinion on the matter. If only he knew just how badly Maison reacts to being called it. If only he knew just how much of a wedge that single syllable has been in our relationship.

If only he knew the single moment of sheer relief I’d felt when the word had slipped past my lips before I had the chance to regret it.

“I have a full kitchen,” Hunter continues. “I’d love for you to make us something to munch on, Nolan. Nothing heavy or fancy.”

I look at Maison again, not sure what I should do. I want to cook for them—of course I do. But it scares me how badly I want to. It scares me what that wanting might mean. What any of this wanting inside of me might mean. It’s too much wanting, right? I’m a terrible person for all of this wanting.

“He’s a great cook,” Maison agrees, his eyes never leaving mine. He even manages a wobbly smile. “You won’t be disappointed in whatever he manages to whip up.”

“I have a feeling I won’t be disappointed with anything when it comes to the two of you, but I appreciate the assurance.” Hunter places a hand on the nape of my neck. His other hand settles on the small of Maison’s back. The touches are just enough to turn us toward the kitchen before he’s hands-off again. “What do you say, Nolan?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He smiles at me, his teeth white and straight except for a single canine that’s crooked. His eyes are brighter now that we’re all inside. I had thought they were dark—brown, most likely—but they’re actually hazel, leaning more toward green even. Bright. “He’s being so good for us already, isn’t he, Maison?”

The words zip along my spine until I can feel them vibrating every cell of my body. It only gets better when I catch Maison’s proud smile. “You have no idea.”

I have to hurry past them to the kitchen before I do something stupid like cry or fall to my knees or beg them to figure out a way for me to go from being Maison’s to being theirs .