Page 108 of Unconditionally Yours

And when his gaze finally meets mine, Oof.

All that hurt. All that betrayal I didn’t mean to cause but definitely did hits like a punch to the soul.

But worse. He’s still wearing my fucking scrunchie on his wrist. A charm from a girl who ruined him.

My emotions take a crowbar to my knees.

I start to drop, but Benji catches me around the waist with an ease that says mine.

And Jett’s there. Down low, on the floor in front of me like I’m the one bleeding.

“Hey,” he says, voice ruined, “Princess. Look at me.”

Oh, god. Oh, fuck.

They’re both looking at me like I’m the thread holding them together. And I’m not strong enough for this, but I also want it. Want them both. Want this. Want to fix it and fuck it and cry through it.

And we still have group.

Jett stands, towering, and fixes those dark, murder-simmering eyes on Benji. “I got her.”

Wait. What? Was that... a peace offering? A grunted olive branch wrapped in testosterone and unspoken trauma?

I feel Benji draw a breath behind me, big and slow and don’t-fuck-around-with-this serious. His hand’s still warm at my waist, like he’s not actually letting go, even if he’s about to.

“Jett,” Benji says, soft and full of layered meaning I will never in my life decode without a Rosetta Stone and three therapists. It sounds like: okay. But also like: fuck around and find out.

Then he leans in, voice just for me. “I’ll be close.”

Jesus, Mary, and restraining order, that protectiveness.

I reach behind me and squeeze his hand. “See you in an hour,” I say, because I am strong, I am capable, and also I am one misplaced growl away from bursting into emotional confetti.

The second Benji steps back, Jett’s hand slides to my waist like it never wasn’t there. And I didn’t shatter something we can’t unsmash.

He steers me toward the office with all the gentle menace of a man who could cradle me or kill for me, depending on how the next sixty seconds go.

I don’t even know what just happened. Some kind of man code détente just occurred and I missed the subtitles. Does this mean he forgives me? Or that I’m about to be metaphorically waterboarded by feelings?

“You get your gifts?” I ask, voice way too casual for someone trembling inside like a shaken soda can.

“You broke into my house,” he says, like he hasn’t been jerking off to my perfume in his space. Then he veers off to the counter to sign in.

I pull a pen out of my bra like a slutty magician and scribble my name beside his.

Susan looks at us like she just read the deleted scenes from Fifty Shades of Mess, all bad eyebrow arch and judgey silence. I still need to file a complaint. Maybe slash her tires. Her Rhys fantasies can fuck right off.

No sign of Rhys, which makes this even more uncomfortable somehow. The silence is heavy enough to bench press me as we walk toward the group room.

The Rage Brigade’s already seated, full line-up of emotionally constipated men with varying degrees of facial hair. Eyes track us as we enter. Some linger on Jett’s bruises. Some on the hand he’s still got clamped on my waist, staking a claim. At least one pair lingers too long on my tits. Rude.

Rabid Randy shakes his head like he’s disappointed in my life choices. Please, sir, you once threatened to marry a parking meter.

Dr. Dickblock looks up from his little power trip clipboard and blinks. “Mr. Ryker. You’re injured.”

Yeah, no shit, doc. And guess who’s about to emotionally bleed out?

The only seats left are across from each other. Jett walks me to one, then takes the other, drags it beside me, and nudges Randy’s out of the way.