Page 44 of The Substitute (New York Gods #4)

My stupid heart flutters in my chest. No one has ever thought about me like this. How the hell am I supposed to process that? Who told him storms bother me?

Ambrose?

“Did you talk to him?” A knot clogs my throat, and I hate myself for wanting him to stay.

For wanting this to mean something, for me to mean something.

I can’t be what he needs. Logically, I know that.

I’m a fucking mess, and he deserves so much more.

He’ll get bored of me eventually and take a part of my heart with him.

Will I be able to truly love someone when I have so little of my heart left?

Everyone I’ve ever loved has kept a piece of me.

What’s left is broken, scarred, and brittle.

“Yes. He called me and told me he’s worried about you.”

My heart shatters a little. Ambrose still cares enough to send Savage here.

“What did he tell you?”

“Just that he’s worried and asked if I could get back here. You never did tell me what’s going on with you two.” He presses his lips to my forehead.

“It’s stupid.” Or at least it feels that way now.

“Your feelings aren’t stupid.”

“I don’t even know what happened. We were at dinner at my parents’ house, and he was defending Teddy, and I’m just tired of everyone drinking the light that shines out of my brother’s ass.”

Savage laughs a little. “I’m sure your brother annoys him.”

“I know. Are you going to tell me to dump him?” I don’t want him to say that, and guilt eats at me for feeling that way. Savage has been so good to me.

“I’d never tell you who to be with.”

“Don’t you want me to yourself?”

“Of course I do—I’m greedy. But I can tell how you feel about him, and I wouldn’t do that to you. I don’t want to see you hurting.”

“But you do want me to yourself?” I clarify.

“How could I not want every minute of your free time?” He wraps his massive limbs around me, pinning me to his chest.

“But it’s more than just that.” I sigh, not wanting to open up and explain but knowing I have to.

“Then what else was it?” He plays with my hair, helping me relax.

“He introduced himself to my parents as my roommate, and that just soured the whole tone of the night.”

“You know he can’t come out, right?”

“Why not? It’s just hockey. They’ll get over it.”

“It’s so much more than that. He’s been forced to have a complicated relationship with his sexuality and was never able to be open about it.” Savage kisses my forehead. “He wasn’t lucky like you and I were with accepting parents.”

“What do you mean?” Does he mean the Catholic school Ambrose was forced to go to? Did his dad know about the horrible shit they did that Ambrose can’t even talk about? How much does Savage know about it?

“It’s not my story to tell. You have to ask him about it. But there is a lot weighing on his shoulders with the NHL and how he was raised. I think in this instance, you don’t have all the data either.”

How did I not put it together that Ambrose would have religious trauma complicating his beliefs about himself and his sexuality? Now I feel like a total dick, and I hate myself a little.

Savage caresses under my chin with his knuckle and brushes my nose with his.

“Whatever is going on in your head, it’s not true.

” His lips press against mine, and it’s the final push I need to let myself go.

I grip his jacket in my hands and pull him inside the room.

He holds the back of my neck and walks me backward toward my bed, pushing me onto it when we find it.

He’s breathing hard as he stands over me, licking his bottom lip and running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to feed you, cuddle you, and if you behave, maybe I’ll make you come. In that order.”

“An orgasm would be a much better distraction than a movie.” I cross my arms and glare at him.

“Have you eaten today?”

“That is not the point.”

“It’s exactly my point. Get your laptop and turn something on,” he demands.

“You’re really annoying.”

He smirks at me, and it makes everything below my belly button pay attention. “I’ll remember that the next time you’re begging to come.”

“Who says you’ll be involved next time?” My cheeks flush hot since that came out differently than I meant it.

Savage puts the bag of food on my desk and crawls over me, straddling my hips and pinning my hands to the bed in one of his huge ones.

He smells so fucking good, like rain and aftershave, leather and sex.

His free hand slides up my chest to my throat, and he lowers his mouth to mine so I can feel every word he speaks.

Every part of me is surrounded by him. Nothing exists except him, and I want to bury myself in that feeling.

“If you think Ambrose and I won’t compromise just to make you beg, you’re in for a rude awakening.” He slides his lips up my jaw to my ear. “Your own hand only gets you so far.” He rocks against my hardening cock, and the air in my lungs freezes. “You’re mine tonight, baby girl.”

I whimper at the words and sensations he’s forcing on me but can’t think clearly with him restraining me.

It calms the busy part of my head until the only thing left is the need to come.

There’s nothing to do but take what he gives me, and it’s intoxicatingly freeing.

I’m beginning to crave this calm from him.

“I love the sounds you make for me.” Savage bites my earlobe before sitting up and releasing me with a knowing look on his face that I want to slap off. Jerk. “But this isn’t about orgasms.”

Swinging his leg off me, he stands and grabs the food, hands me the laptop, then pushes me over so he can sit with his back against the wall. All while my cock is hard and aching.

“Come on, let’s eat before the food gets cold.” He drops the takeout container in my lap and opens one with a massive burger and French fries. I open mine and try to hide my smile at the curly fries. “It’s okay to be happy sometimes.” He nudges my shoulder with his.

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

I shove a long, curled fry in my mouth to give me a second to think. Do I know it? Do I even know how to be happy? When was the last time I was?

Thunder booms outside, making me jolt so hard, I choke on the food. I cough and eventually manage to get the chunk clear, but it leaves my throat sore.

Savage hands me a drink and rubs my back. “You good?”

I nod and swallow the cold liquid, hoping it soothes the ache, but it doesn’t.

“Storms really aren’t your thing,” he comments, and it makes me instantly defensive.

“I didn’t make it up. Sound can’t hurt you, but it wreaks havoc on my nervous system anyway. I don’t enjoy being fucking pathetic.”

He grips my throat and pulls my face to his, both a warning and a command.

“You are not pathetic.” His tone holds an edge I haven’t heard before.

“What have I told you about self-depreciating comments?” This is an I’m-not-fucking-around tone that probably comes right before something I won’t like if I keep pushing it.

Whatever. Maybe that’s what I need today—the fight.

To see how far I can push him before he walks away.

I try to shrug him off, but he doesn’t let me. “Tobias.”

Tears burn the back of my eyes, and I know if I look at him, they’ll fall. I’m so tired of being this emotional. Shoving people away to protect myself. It's easier to hurt myself than to let them do it.

Didn’t I used to smile and laugh and enjoy things? Didn’t I use to have self-worth and a backbone? Feels like a lifetime ago.

In the blink of an eye, the computer and the food are gone, and I’m hauled into his lap.

His jaw is set, and his eyebrows are lowered just enough to tell me he’s serious, and I have all his attention.

I both love it and hate it. I want to be the center of someone’s attention as long as they don’t look too closely.

All the ways I’m inadequate are written on my skin like ink.

It’s all I see when I look in the mirror—it’s why I avoid them.

How much longer will it take for him to see them, too?

I’m expecting a lecture or for him to tell me to repeat some stupid affirmation, but instead, I get arms wrapped around me, and my face buried in his neck. The stupid tears swimming in my eyes fall, soaking into his shirt as I cling to him.

Savage rubs my back and just lets me fall apart. He doesn’t ask stupid questions or tell me it’s going to be okay. He’s just here.

No one has ever done that for me before either. No one except for Ambrose. These two are going to be the death of me. I’m going to get used to it right before it’s ripped away.

Who am I kidding? I already am used to it.

My phone buzzes against my leg, and I know who it is without looking. Ambrose. At least I hope it is. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him, but I know he sent Savage here, which means he still cares.

The fact that I’m falling apart in Savage’s lap while Ambrose checks in on me makes me cry harder. He doesn’t owe it to me to tell me the rest of his story, and maybe he won’t now that I’ve fucked it all up. How can I face him?

Part of me doesn’t deserve this kind of attention from them. A different part is terrified it’s going to blow up in my face and I’ll lose everyone. Again. The last part is tired. Tired of fighting with myself, tired of the unknowns and feeling like I’m failing somehow.