Page 51 of Filled

Cruz huffs a laugh and rubs a palm over his beard. “Locker room was something else.”

“So this is what I’m asking.” Dante’s voice drops, steady as the man himself. “The three of us. Together. Not me and her, not me and you, not you and her. Us. Are you in?”

The room goes silent except for the hum of the fridge in the next room.

I look up. Cruz is watching me, not Dante.

“Sweetheart.” His big hand lands on my knee, gentle. “What do you want?”

The question undoes something. Nobody’s asked me what I want in a long time. Not like that. Not like the answer mattered.

“I want it,” I whisper. “I want all of you.”

Dante’s eyes soften, but he doesn’t let me off the hook.

“Baby. Tell Cruz what you told me last night. About Gerald.”

I freeze.

“Dante!”

“He needs to know who he’s protecting.” Dante’s voice is warm, patient but brooks no argument. It’s not open for debate, he wants us all on clear footing to move forward. “He needs to know why we go slow with you. Why we ask. Why nobody touches you without your expressed consent.”

Cruz’s hand tightens on my knee, careful.

I look at the coffee table. The condensation ring under his beer. The cracked corner of a coaster. Anywhere but his face.

“My stepfather.” The words come out flat because that’s the only way I can get them out at all. “He’d come into my room when my mom was so drunk she was passed out. Touch me. Do worse. It stopped when I was old enough to fight him off, and yet, two weeks ago he tried to get into my bed and I broke his nose and dislocated his shoulder and left.”

I keep my eyes on the table.

“That’s why I’m here. That’s why I came.”

The silence stretches. I can hear Cruz breathing, slow and deliberate, the way he does between rounds when he’s reining himself in.

Then his hand leaves my knee, and for one ugly second I think I’ve ruined it.

But he slides closer, wraps his huge arm around my shoulders, and presses his mouth to the crown of my head.

“I’ll kill him.”

He says it so casually, like he’s offering to grab groceries.

“Cruz, don’t be crazy.”

“No, sweetheart, listen to me.” He pulls back enough to meet my gaze. “Give me a name and an address. I’ll drive down tonight. He won’t be a problem for you ever again.”

“Cruz.” Dante’s voice comes out low, measured. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Breathe more.”

Cruz drags air in through his nose. Lets it out. Pulls me tighter into him.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I just…” His jaw works. “Anyone who puts hands on you. I can’t sit with that.”

“I broke him,” I say, and my voice is shaking and I hate it. “I did. He’s not coming.”