Chapter Seven

Cecelia

T obias insisted on driving home, and I'm thankful for it—my vision blurry from sleep deprivation, my body aching from a day of roller coaster-worthy emotions. I have so many questions but can't bring myself to ask them yet because any questions I ask right now make me vulnerable and susceptible.

Clearly, I heard him say he'd stopped lying, and that comment landed where intended. It's up to me to believe him. Just months ago, I was ready for any truth, any explanation he was willing to give, and when I left, I made peace with the idea that I would never get some of my answers. So far, everything he's professed makes sense in a way I'm not comfortable with, which only makes it hard to hold on to my animosity. I'm still reeling from his invasion in my life, and I want it made clear that he will not get away with another hostile takeover.

"Stop overthinking this," he says softly, his hand on the wheel as he effortlessly navigates his way back to my house, his profile lit by the fading sun. He's dressed so differently from the way I'm used to seeing him. Hoodie, jeans, cheap sneakers, hair disheveled, without product and cresting naturally across his forehead. He's the same man... yet different in a way I can't put my finger on. Maybe it's his openness, his eagerness to reveal secrets and the parts of his life he's kept hidden. At the same time, I still feel he's guarding something, something I'm missing. I'm still shell-shocked he's in Virginia, driving Dom's Camaro, with plans of again sleeping in my bed—more than that—merging our lives.

All things I considered impossible mere days ago. I want so much just to be happy, accept him here, and throw myself into the notion that this is permanent, but flashes of the past haunt me. From my experience, the minute I accept love, accept happiness, it gets snatched away from me in life-altering ways. I accused him of being a coward, but I'm the one now whose fears are overshadowing everything else.

"Ask me anything," he says, glancing my way briefly.

Instead, I rest back against the seat, my eyes dry, my bones aching. Suspicion gnaws at my conscience. Something wasn't right today, and I can't quite put my finger on it, but I decide to compartmentalize that for the moment.

I've never been so tired, but I can't stop staring at him. His presence here is surreal. Not once have I granted myself any version of a life here that included him because I was so intent on letting him go. His revelations this morning changed some of my perceptions, and maybe that's where my hesitation is. The more it all makes sense, the less angry I'll be. When he pulls to a stop at the house, it takes effort for me to open the heavy door of the Camaro as he gathers a few plastic bags from the back seat, along with a paper bag full of homemade vegetable soup he requested just before we left the café.

He meets me at the hood, urging me forward with his free hand on the small of my back as we approach the front door. He sorts through my keys, finding the right one, and sticks it into the lock. Standing to his right, I notice when his shoulders slump forward before he lets out a heavy breath. Confusion sets in as he sets the bags down and turns to me. Placing an open palm on my stomach, a familiar and predatorial look in his eyes, he walks me back toward the brick on the side of the porch, pinning me to the house.

I gaze up at him as he stares down at me intently a split second before thrusting his fingers into my hair, fisting it, and crashing his mouth to mine. Gasping, he takes advantage of my surprise, urging my lips wider before he sweeps my mouth fervently with his tongue, plastering our bodies together and eliminating all the space between us. His erection brushes my stomach as he seduces me thoroughly with his kiss, and in those moments, I forget myself, I forget my grievances against him and kiss him back. Gripping his shoulders, I begin to melt into his mammoth frame, wrapping around him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's a voice of protest reminding me that I'm freely participating. But this isn't an exchange of power. This is a lover's kiss, a reminder.

Heart thrumming, panties dampening, I clutch the material of his hoodie to bring him closer. He indulges me, lifting my leg and grinding into me as we both get lost, making a new memory, a searing kiss I won't soon forget. A pained grunt leaves him when he pulls away and gazes down at me. In it, I see—need, want, lust, hope.

"I've wanted to do that all day, and if I did it once we stepped inside this house, I don't know if I could stop myself. I'm okay with not being a gentleman because that's not who I am and not who you love. Asking permission to kiss you? Never going to fucking happen."

I read into his actions, his intent as he steps away and collects his bags before pushing the door open. He's trying. Trying to be respectful of the clear boundaries I've set, trying to take things at my pace, despite the impatient man he is.

Once inside, he keeps his gaze averted as if it pains him to look at me. "Go take a shower. I'll walk Beau and warm up this soup for you."

"You don't have to do that."

He pauses at the threshold of the living room, his shoulders tense, his back to me. "Just let me take care of you tonight. Tomorrow you can glare at me, yell at me, put me in my place, or whatever else you think you need to do to make yourself feel better about letting me in the door. However, you haven't eaten, and you haven't slept since I got here, and I don't want it to start this way." Without waiting for my response, he makes his way toward the kitchen, and I watch him retreat, shoulders heavy, while I trace my swollen lips with my finger. Every part of me wants to go after him, seek his kiss again, feel his weight on top of me, to give in, but my mind wins, and I make my way toward the shower.

When I'm freshly dressed in my flannel pajamas, I walk into the kitchen to see the steaming bowl of soup and a note next to it.

Went for a run.

His absence brings me no relief. Never would I have thought it would be so hard to communicate with Tobias after all this time. At this point, no matter how well we once meshed, we feel like very intimate strangers. Everything about our dynamic has changed. For the first time ever, he's not sneaking into my bedroom under Roman's radar, and we have the ability to be open with each other, open publicly about our relationship without the repercussions that threatened us before. I take a seat at the table feeling oddly guilty at the space I'm putting between us because I can't fathom how this is going to go, or worse, the feeling that it will end again... it's just a matter of when and how.

Will he up and leave the first time the brotherhood faces a serious threat? Will this small town—a simpler life—bore him to the point he'll feel coming here was a mistake? I hate that my fear stems from investing in him again, only to watch him leave. I hate that I'm so fucking afraid to embrace the idea of us permanently. But he'd forced me to let go of it. He forced me to imagine life without that possibility. But mostly, I hate that it's all, once again, on his timeline. Numb, that's what I decide I am for the moment. Numb. And it's for my own protection.

After eating half the bowl of soup, I decide to retire early, irritated by the fact that I'm a little uncomfortable in my own house due to consideration of him and what he might be expecting from me. I only manage to gloss over a chapter of a new book before my errant thoughts start to dissipate, and exhausted sleep claims me.