Page 77 of Break Me Open
Don’t tell him. Don’t let it leak into my voice or show on my face. He’s dangerous enough with what he already knows about me. If he had this... he’d own me. Completely. He’d never do it on purpose, but that’s not the point. I’d hand him my everything and then resent him for the fracture when I have to leave.
He’s made it clear — in his own feral way — that he wants me. Physically, definitely. Emotionally... sometimes. Maybe. It’s hard to tell with him; everything looks like a joke until it suddenly doesn’t. But that word? That’s something else. That’s heavy and future shaped. That’s a word that doesn’t belong in this little cabin on the edge of nowhere, wedged between a deployment and an expiration date.
So, I won’t say it. I’ll just carry it. Quietly. Until these six weeks are over, and I can unpack it somewhere where it won’t explode. Easy. Sure.
I shift again, just enough that my nose brushes his shoulder. He makes another sleep noise and rolls onto his side, dragging me with him like an inconvenient extra limb. Now we’re properly tangled. His knees bracket mine. His arm tightens around my waist. “Stop wriggling,” he mutters; his voice is rough with sleep, and his accent is thicker than usual. “You’re worse than a cat.”
“You’re awake,” I say, my voice coming out scratchy.
He huffs against my hair. “Have been for five minutes. You breathe too loudly.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly, relief and panic colliding in my chest.
He laughs, and the sound vibrates through both of us. “You’re welcome, detka.” Baby. Great. I stare at the wall I’m facing. The wood is rough and pale, with knots like little eyes. “Are you going to let me up?” he asks eventually. “Or are we staying like this until we die?”
“I’m comfortable,” I mutter, which is true, and also absolutely not the point. He hums, then his thumb rubs an absent little circle on my side. It sends a bolt of heat right through me.
“Caiden,” he says. It’s unfairly soft. “Are you all right?”
No, I’m not. “Yes.”
“You’re lying,” he says calmly. “Again.”
“Not all of us can be professional liars, Sergeant.”
He snorts. “I only lie to people who deserve it.”
“So, everyone,” I mumble into him.
“Mm. Especially you.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Good,” he says, and I can hear the smirk. He doesn’t push. That’s the worst part. If he pried, if he tried to dig, I could snap at him, deflect, or start a fight. Instead, he lies there, letting me pretend I’m okay.
We stay like that for another few minutes, and my heartbeat gradually untangles itself. It still feels wrong, somehow, that this is allowed and I’m allowed to have this — a man whose heartbeat I can literally feel against my palm.
“If we don’t get up, you’re going to be too sore to move,” he warns. The way he says it sends a full-body shiver through me. His hand slides a fraction lower on my hip, his fingers brushing one of the marks he left. “Already regretting your choices, detka?”
“Never,” I say before I can stop myself.
I feel him smile against my hair.“Good.” He rolls away first, untangling us with a sleepy sort of efficiency, dragging the blanket with him, exposing his skin to the cold air.
I grab for it on instinct. “Oi,” I protest. He swings his legs out of bed and stands, gloriously naked, stretching like a smug bastard, red marks standing out on his arse, chest, and neck.
I sit up slowly, wincing, and hauling the blanket up around my waist. Every muscle in my body protests in sympathy. My lower back complains, and my thighs are going to be a problem later. It’s not a bad hurt. It’s just... very noticeable. He glances back over his shoulder, takes in the way I’m moving, and grins. “You look like you’ve been hit by a tank.”
“Ifeellike I’ve been hit by a tank,” I mutter. “Several times.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, smug as hell. I throw a pillow at him, and he dodges, laughing, and vanishes into the tiny bathroom.
I take the opportunity to breathe.
Okay. He doesn’t seem... weird. No post-sex regret or shift in behaviour. Still smirking and cocky, which helps a bit. I can do this. I can keep this normal. It’s just physical, fun, compartmentalised. The rest can sit quietly in the corner and keep its damn mouth shut.
I stand up, very carefully, and start gathering clothes. I pull on my briefs, then the joggers I brought in my bag, and finally an oversized T-shirt. The chill in the air creeps into my bones. The cabin is small but genuinely cosy, once the fire’s going. For now, the remnants of last night’s heat cling to the room.
The bathroom door opens, and steam rolls out. He appears in the doorway with a towel slung low on his hips, his hairdamp and messy, and my brain buffers again. He pauses when he sees me staring and his mouth curves. “You like?” he asks.
