Page 40 of My Addiction
“Colton,” I say his name, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Taking his chin between my thumb and forefinger, I tilt his head up to meet mine.
“What’s going on in your head right now?”
He glances down.
“Look at me, Colton, and tell me.”
“They’re monsters,” he says quietly. “I knew that they were going to give up Ollie, but for some reason, it just hit me. My parents are directly involved with the whole thing. Father was a shit lawyer, and when we moved, he went to work for a payday loan business owned by the organization. I never understood why. Why would he not use his degree?”
When he doesn’t continue after a beat, I ask, “So what are you thinking?”
“It’s a front. If he’s the one writing those fucking contracts and filings, then that’s where he’s doing it from. He never worked from home, even though he had a home office.” His voice doesn’t have any emotion to it. Usually, his voice changes with every emotion. But this… this is flat. Empty. This is him breaking.
“Then we don’t start with the church. We start with him.” I tell him.
“How could they do it? Why? For fucking money? Ollie deserves better than that. He deserves a family that loves him and wants him. Not fuckers that would sell him.” He grits out the last part, and yes, the fire in his eyes comes back. “I want to tear them apart. I want to make them suffer.”
“You won’t have to. And Ollie has what he deserves.”
Colton huffs out a breath. “Yeah, he has me. But…”
“Ollie doesn’t just have you anymore.” I tighten my hand on his shoulder. “He has us.” I look him straight in the eye. “And so do you.”
Chapter 20
Colton
“He has us. And so do you.” The words should sound simple. But they don’t, not to me. Because no one has ever said something like that to me before and meant it. I search Ronan’s face automatically, looking for hesitation, for pity, for some sign that he doesn’t fully believe what he’s saying. I don’t find any. His stare is too steady. Something tightens in my chest so hard it almost hurts. I don’t know what to do with the feeling that moves through me, warm and terrifying all at once. Because I have never had this before.
Never had someone look at me like I belong to them in a way that feels safe instead of dangerous. Never has someone offered to stand beside me instead of asking what they can take. The feelings inside me are too tangled to sort through. All I can do is nod, because I can’t fully process what those words mean. Not yet.
“Come on, we’re going home,” Ronan says when we finish eating.
“But I haven’t finished the last report,” I protest.
“It will be there in the morning,” Ronan says, grabs my bag, and hands it to me.
I want to argue with him, tell him we need to figure this out now, that we need to make it make sense. But I’m exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix. Not physically. Emotionally. Deep in my bones. Thinking your parents are monsters is one thing. Seeing proof is another. The contracts. The signatures. My father’s name scrawled across the page in black ink like it means nothing.
The images keep looping in my head, over and over, and I can’t make them stop. Every what-if piles on top of the next until I can barely think around them. I feel trapped inside my own head, like the walls are closing in. Ronan is right. It will still be here tomorrow.
We drive back to his penthouse in silence. It should feel awkward, but somehow it doesn’t. Not completely. The quiet stretches between us, equal parts comforting and unbearable. Ronan drives with both hands on the wheel, focused and steady. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it. He just drives, calm and certain, like he can carry all of this without it crushing him. I keep stealing glances at him.
There’s something about the confidence in the way he moves, the way he exists, that settles me more than words could. Like if he’s here, if he’s still solid beside me, maybe I won’t come apart completely. But the silence gives my thoughts too much room. And every mile home lets the storm inside me grow louder.
As we enter the foyer, my phone dings. I pull up the text and am greeted by a smiling Ollie sitting in a high chair. A short, heavy-set man with a beaming smile stands to the side. The tray on the high chair is smeared with food.
“That’s Franklin,” Ronan says from over my shoulder. “Mom’s chef.”
“Ollie looks happy,” I comment. He truly does in the photo. Even through the mess of food on his face, his dimples are onfull display. He’s safe. That one picture shows me he is safe and happy. It loosens something in my gut, a knot that I didn’t realize was there.
“Why don’t you look happy?”
“I don’t know. Everything today is hitting me hard. I keep thinking about my parents and what that means for Ollie and me. Will I be able to give him a life? I mean, not just a life but a happy one.” I try to explain myself to Ronan, but my thoughts are a jumbled mess in my own head. So trying to verbalize them is next to impossible.
Ronan cocks his head to the side. It’s a movement that’s become endearing. I know that’s his tell when he is trying to process what he is seeing. He must figure something out because he takes my hand, not tightly or forcefully, just a firm pressure on my skin. I follow, letting him take the lead wherever he wants. We enter his bathroom.
Ronan still isn’t saying anything; he just starts to undress me, and I let him. I focus on his hands, on the way he unbuttons my shirt. Then he folds it and places it in the hamper. He drops to one knee, then, raising my left foot, he removes my shoe and sock. He repeats the process on the other foot. Soon, I’m standing before him naked. Standing, he turns on the shower and adjusts the water temperature. Then he undresses himself. He’s not hurried; each move he makes is deliberate. I haven’t seen him fully naked before. Each article of clothing he removes reveals more of his body.
