Page 27 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

She spoke of her childhood—a distant father, a mother who medicated her anxieties, a household where performance mattered more than presence.

Of her relationships—men who had valued her accomplishments, her beauty, her social currency, but never her essence.

Of her week apart—the journals she'd filled, the therapy sessions she'd scheduled, the brutal self-examination she'd undertaken.

"I realized something fundamental," she said, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my shirt.

"My attraction to Miles wasn't about him specifically.

It was about what he represented—success, power, validation.

I wanted to matter to someone who mattered.

To prove my worth by earning the approval of a man who rarely gave it freely. "

The observation landed with uncomfortable force. "And me? Am I simply a more powerful version of the same pattern?"

She raised her head, meeting my gaze directly. "That's what I feared initially. That I'd graduated from the son to the father, seeking a more concentrated version of the same drug."

"And now?" I held my breath, awaiting her verdict.

"Now I understand it's entirely different." Her hand rose to cup my cheek.

"Miles wanted me diminished, controllable, an extension of himself. You want me expanded, challenging, fully realized. The difference is... everything."

Something shifted inside my chest—a lightening, an opening where there had been only careful constraint. Without conscious decision, I pulled her closer, pressing my face into her hair, breathing in her scent as if it were oxygen I'd been denied.

"I don't know how to do this," I admitted again, the words muffled against her temple. "How to be open in the way you deserve. How to trust that vulnerability won't lead to devastation."

"I know," she whispered, pressing a kiss to my jaw. "I'm scared too. But I think... I think that's how we know it's real. That it matters enough to terrify us both."

I pulled back slightly, needing to see her face. "And if I fail? If I retreat into control when emotion becomes overwhelming? If I can't be what you need?"

"Then we try again," she said simply. "And again. And again, until we figure it out. I'm not asking for perfection, Lucas. I'm asking for effort. For honesty when it would be easier to hide. For the courage to try despite the risk of failure."

Her words—so reasonable, so measured, so profoundly challenging—broke something open inside me. A dam I'd constructed decades ago, holding back emotions I'd deemed dangerous, unproductive, unnecessary.

To my horror, I felt moisture gathering in my eyes—not falling, not yet, but there. Present. Undeniable. I turned away, instinct driving me to hide this ultimate vulnerability.

"Don't," she whispered, her fingers gentle but insistent as she guided my face back to hers. "Don't hide from me. Not now."

"I don't do this," I said, voice rougher than I'd intended. "I don't... feel this way."

"But you do," she countered, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. "You just don't allow yourself to acknowledge it."

The truth of her observation was devastating in its accuracy. I had felt—of course I had—but I'd buried those emotions beneath layers of control, rationality, strategic thinking. Had convinced myself they were irrelevant to my success, obstacles to be overcome rather than experiences to be honored.

"Stay with me tonight," I said, the request emerging without calculation or strategy.

"Not for sex. Not for passion. Just... be here. With me. Let me hold you while we sleep."

Her expression shifted, surprise giving way to something deeper, more meaningful. "Lucas Turner, asking rather than commanding. The world must be ending."

The teasing broke the tension, allowed me to breathe again. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes," she confirmed, brushing her lips against mine with exquisite tenderness. "For tonight. For tomorrow. For however long this miracle lasts."

"Miracle," I repeated, testing the word that had never featured in my vocabulary. "Is that what this is?"

"What else would you call it?" she asked softly. "This connection that defies explanation? This recognition that transcends logic? This pull that neither of us can resist despite every complication?"

I had no answer—not one that wouldn't reveal the full extent of my vulnerability. Instead, I stood, lifting her with me, carrying her not to the bedroom but to the bathroom. Set her down with gentle care before turning on the oversized shower, adjusting the temperature with precision.

She watched me, confusion evident in her expression. "Lucas?"

"Let me take care of you," I said, moving back to her. "Not possess you. Not control you. Just... care for you. Can I do that?"

Understanding dawned, her eyes softening as she nodded. "Yes."

I undressed her slowly, each movement deliberate, reverent. Not the urgent stripping of our previous encounters, but something sacred in its care. Each newly revealed inch of skin received attention—a gentle caress, a soft kiss, an appreciation that transcended mere desire.

When she stood naked before me, I stripped quickly, efficiently, without performance or display.

Led her into the steam-filled shower, positioned her beneath the spray, and began to wash her—long strokes down her back, gentle circles across her shoulders, careful attention to every part of her body.

She made a small sound—not pleasure, exactly, though that was part of it. Something deeper, more complex. When I met her gaze, I found tears streaming down her face, mingling with the shower's cascade.

"Savannah?" Alarm shot through me. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, a sob escaping despite her obvious effort to contain it. "No. God, no. It's just... no one has ever touched me like this before. Like I'm precious rather than convenient. Like I matter beyond what my body can provide."

The admission broke something in me—the last vestige of control I'd been maintaining. I gathered her against my chest, her wet skin sliding against mine, and simply held her as she cried. Not sexual, not demanding, just... connection. Raw, unfiltered, terrifying in its intimacy.

"You are precious," I murmured against her hair, the words emerging from some place I'd thought long sealed. "Irreplaceable. Essential."

Her arms tightened around me, face pressed against my chest as her tears continued, her body shaking with the force of emotions too long contained.

I held her through it, this storm of feeling I'd never allowed myself to experience, murmuring reassurances against her temple as the water cascaded around us.

When her tears finally subsided, I shut off the shower, wrapped her in the largest, softest towel I owned, and carried her to the bed. Dried her with gentle care, slipped one of my t-shirts over her head when she shivered, and tucked her beneath the covers.

She caught my wrist as I started to move away. "Where are you going?"

"To get you water," I explained. "Crying dehydrates."

A small smile touched her lips despite the redness of her eyes. "Of course you'd know the physiological effects of emotional release."

I returned moments later with water for both of us, settled beside her on the bed, and gathered her against me with an arm around her shoulders. She curled into me, her head finding that spot on my chest that seemed designed for her specifically, one leg thrown over mine with casual intimacy.

"I'm sorry for falling apart," she murmured, voice husky from crying.

"Don't be," I said, stroking her damp hair. "It was... a gift. Your trust. Your vulnerability."

"Even though it terrifies you?" She tilted her head to look up at me, those green eyes still overbright from tears.

"Especially because it terrifies me," I admitted. "You're showing me parts of myself I'd forgotten existed. Feelings I'd convinced myself were unnecessary. Needs I'd buried beneath ambition and control."

She was silent for a long moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. "What are we doing, Lucas? Really? Is this just an intense affair? A mid-life crisis? A rebellion against convention? Or is it..."

"More," I finished when she trailed off. "It's more. I don't have the vocabulary for it yet. Don't know how to categorize or contain it. But it's more than I've ever experienced. More than I thought possible at this point in my life."

She nodded against my chest, tension easing from her body as sleep began to claim her. "For me too," she whispered, the words slurring slightly with exhaustion. "So much more."

As her breathing deepened, her body growing heavy against mine, I found myself experiencing something entirely unfamiliar.

Not happiness, exactly—too complex, too layered with uncertainty and risk for that simple label. Not contentment—too charged with anticipation and possibility.

It felt like... standing at a threshold. Like discovering a door in what I'd thought was a solid wall, opening to reveal vistas I'd never imagined existed. Terrifying in its unknown dimensions, yet compelling in ways I couldn't articulate.

I tightened my arms around her sleeping form, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and surrendered to whatever this was becoming.

For the first time in decades, I allowed myself to feel without analysis, to experience without calculation, to be present in a moment so simple I couldn't control or predict.

If this was vulnerability, perhaps it wasn't the weakness my mother had claimed. Perhaps it was its own kind of strength— rawer, riskier, but ultimately more rewarding than the control I'd valued for so long.

Tomorrow would bring complications, questions, the reality we'd been avoiding since that first night. Miles. The company. The inevitable whispers if our relationship became public.

But tonight, with Savannah's heart beating steadily against mine, those concerns seemed distant, manageable. Secondary to the miracle—her word, yet increasingly apt—unfolding between us.

I closed my eyes, allowing sleep to approach, carrying one certainty into unconsciousness: whatever happened next, I would fight for this. For her. For us. With every resource, every strategy, every ounce of determination that had built my empire.

Savannah Blake had become more valuable than any acquisition, any deal, any triumph of my business career.

She had become necessary.

And Lucas Turner did not surrender what was necessary to his existence.

Not without a war.