Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Hunter

I should have known better. I really should have.

It was good for a day. Then another. Then another. Then one more.

They’d barely left my house, only doing so once when Nolan’s friends, Bryce and Matt, warned them that people were getting suspicious of their whereabouts. They’d shown their faces for a night, basically acknowledging the fact that they’re up to something but asking for privacy that their friends grudgingly agreed to provide. They’d hated their night there, barely sleeping, calling me at four in the morning to ask if it was too early to come over. I’d been awake too, desperate to get them back. I’d told them to drive safely. To let themselves in. They’d greeted me in my warm bed, already naked before they reached my bedroom door. They’d kissed me all over, desperate for every inch, and I’d felt like a livewire.

Nolan had begged to suck my cock.

Maison had argued that he better fucking share.

I’d spilled between their kissing lips, all over noses and foreheads and my own stomach. They’d licked each other clean. Then me. They were half-hard when they curled back up against my chest like they hadn’t just sort of shattered me to pieces. They didn’t want to take care of themselves, didn’t want to have to move away from me, each of their faces buried in one side of my neck, arms and legs slung over me. It didn’t matter then, that they’d shattered me to pieces. They were already putting me back together.

Finally, we watched The Winter Soldier. Nolan had been horny enough not to see right through my false shock at Bucky’s continued existence. Maison and I had fucked him until he was nearly incoherent after, teasing that maybe we’d get ourselves some Winter Soldier costumes someday. I’d asked which he wanted more—me taking him and Maison apart while dressed as the Winter Soldier, or him watching me take Maison apart while Maison was dressed as the Winter Soldier. The poor boy had been a whimpering mess, unable to decide. I had winked at Maison when I said we could probably do both. Maison had moaned and started begging to come right then.

We learn things about each other.

I learn that Maison is very into begging. He wants to be desperate, wants to plead. Not even for just his orgasm, but for any of it. To be able to be inside Nolan. To be able to kiss us. To be touched by us. He wants to beg until he’s nearly sobbing. I haven’t pushed him hard enough for the sobs to start, but I plan to soon.

I learn that Nolan likes to be full even more than I originally thought. He wants our fingers, our cocks, our toys. He gets anxious without something inside him. He admits that he was ignoring that feeling whenever they were home together, but that it was harder to ignore at my house, knowing I’d give him what he needed if only he asked. He asked. We delivered, doing everything we could to keep him full at all times. I whispered in Maison’s ear while Nolan fell asleep on my chest one night, telling him I think I might install dildos all over the house—on a dining chair, on the floor of the living room, on the goddamn shower wall. Making our boy sit still sometimes, all stuffed full, while other times making him ride them and give us a pretty show. Nolan had been awake enough to whimper and shiver and whisper, “Please?”

I learn that the two of them love to kiss and cuddle each other, but what they really love is doing those things to me as a pair. They hold hands as they use their free ones to explore wherever I allow them to touch. They each take a nipple in their mouths before working their way to meet at my sternum, tongues greedily meeting for a brief moment before returning to taste my skin. They like to each ride one of my thighs, grinding as they whisper admissions of love and want and need.

I learn that I love them even more than I originally thought. I love when Maison gets a little hangry around noon and gets all grumbly until he’s fed. I love when Nolan warms my cock and drifts with his eyes half-closed and his body relaxed. I love when they get into a giggly mood together, poking and teasing, almost always ending with laughter-soaked kisses. I love that Nolan makes a fucking mess in the kitchen when he’s given free rein, and that Maison follows behind him with amusement trying to keep the chaos under control, only to end up contributing to the mess while stealing bits of food that get him hard looks and hand smacks. I love that they start to include me in things, explaining inside jokes, telling me about their friends, sharing little memories.

Almost a week after things had changed, I learn that I should have known better.

It’s a phone call.

One minute the three of us are asleep, Maison’s hand curled around my side from where he has his arm slung over Nolan’s waist, Nolan’s face tucked against my neck. The next, a phone is ringing. It’s loud. So loud it must be on purpose.

I’m trying to process the sharp awakening when I feel the mattress dipping beneath a moving body. I turn my head on my pillow, confused for a moment. Then it registers that the left side of my body is cold because Maison is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his hand long gone.

I watch his back, wondering what’s wrong. He puts his phone to his ear and stands up, heading toward the hall as he asks, “Is it time?”

Someone says something. A male, I think. Low and rumbling. Maison’s shoulders draw up, his muscles tense. He flexes his hand that’s not holding the phone. Open. Close. Open. Close. I want to take it, to tell him it’s okay, to tell him to breathe.

I let him disappear down the hall, trying to tell myself it’s none of my business.

But he’s mine now. They both are.

I slip away from Nolan, holding my breath when he stirs with a grumble and a furrowed brow. He relaxes again though, not moving when I pull a blanket over him. My lips are starting to curl into a tired smile at the sight of him all sleepy and adorable. Then I hear Maison make a sound that’s somewhere between a frustrated growl and a sob. I nearly stumble in my haste to get to him, following the sound down the hall to the stairs. He’s hunched over on the top step with his fingers tangled in his hair and his head bowed, elbows resting on his knees.

Oh, sweetheart.

He looks up when he hears me approach, the dim stairwell light illuminating his red-rimmed blue eyes. His hands have dropped into his lap. They’re trembling.

“What happened?”

“Just—” He swallows, his eyes falling away from me as he prepares to lie. Or at least hide something. Him and his secrets. “I have to go somewhere. For work.”

I frown. “When?”

“Soon. I—a few minutes. I’ll have to wake Nolan first.” He bows his head again, whispering, “ Fuck .”

I fold myself down beside him, resting my hand on the nape of his neck. He flinches at the touch but pushes into it right after, not giving me a chance to pull away. I notice the first of his many scars begins just where my thumb rests. It’s one of the subtler lines, the skin smooth and only slightly tinged white-pink. I think it’s from a whip. I think most of them are.

I hate that they could be from a whip.

I hate that I know what marks from a whip— my whip—look like, even if mine never scar.

I hate that I know deep in my gut that he didn’t ask for any of it.

“I thought maybe you woke up because of another nightmare,” I admit. “Before I realized the phone was ringing.”

“Funny. I was—before I woke. Having a nightmare, I mean.” He laughs, but it’s low and harsh. Angry. Defeated. “Woke into a waking nightmare. Isn’t that great?”

“No. It really isn’t.” I move my thumb against his skin, stroking the scar there. “Talk to me, Maison. What’s going on?”

“Don’t,” he warns. Or maybe begs. “Please.”

I try not to let that hurt, keeping my focus on what I might be able to do to at least help. “Nolan said the nightmares are worse when you’re struggling.”

“Yeah? Guess maybe that’s true. I don’t know. I—I have them most nights. The kind of day before doesn’t usually matter, honestly.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

“No. No, I really don’t.”

“It might help if—”

“Stop.” He shrugs my hand off his shoulder, turning to glare at me. I know him too well, though. I see the fear in that glare. Terror, really. “I told you, I don’t want to tell you about that. About any of this. Just—back off.”

I duck my head, hating myself for not being able to respect his boundaries. Hating myself even more for wanting to keep pushing. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at not having control, if you haven’t noticed. Not knowing what haunts you…that makes me feel very out of control. But that’s not on you. I’m the one who has to figure out how to let it go. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve got it handled, Hunter.” He forces a smile. I hate it. I can’t even look at it. “Hey, I’ve got this, okay? It’s not something you have to worry about. Either of you. It’s not on your plate.”

“Maison, anything to do with either of you is on my plate.”

“Your job as a dom?” he asks with an almost cruel amusement in his voice.

“No.” I palm his cheek, forcing him to look right at me. Forcing him to face this one reality. “My job as your partner .”

His breath catches, his muscles tensing.

I hope he can’t hear the pained fear in my voice when I ask, “That’s what I am now, right? I thought we were all partners.”

“Yes. Yeah. We are.” He puts a hand over mine. “But this—this shit , Hunter…it’s mine, okay? I don’t want to share it. Everything it touches, it taints. It’s like this darkness that sucks the life out of the whole fucking world around it. I don’t want to let it touch this. Touch us. I have to fucking protect it, okay? I have to.”

It sounds good.

I’d believe it, if there weren’t so many reasons not to.

“Does Nolan know?”

“What my nightmares are about? No, he doesn’t.”

“What about your scars?” I ask. “Your other secrets?”

He looks away, making my hand fall from his face. I stare at it where it settles on my knee. “Most of what Nolan knows, he knows because it’s a part of his secret too. He doesn’t know everything.”

Ah, so it’s not just Maison shutting me out, but both of them.

Excellent.

As if summoned, Nolan appears behind us, dressed in Maison’s sweatshirt that goes halfway down to his knees. His arms are wrapped around his waist like he can sense that something is wrong. I wouldn’t be surprised. For one thing, we’re sitting on the stairs in the middle of the night. For another, he seems particularly perceptive, especially when it comes to Maison.

His eyes find the phone clenched in Maison’s hand, a dark cloud falling over him. I watch his face crumple for a moment before he manages to reel it in enough to ask, “Do you have to go?"

Maison looks away from the both of us, down the stairs. His chest heaves with the breath he forces himself to take. I watch him in profile as he blinks and suddenly makes his expression go blank. It’s fast. Easy. A switch flipping. Something burns inside of me at the sight. At the ability.

“We talked about this,” he says quietly, and it hurts, knowing he talked about this to Nolan but not to me. When did they talk about it? Why don’t I get to know? “Shouldn’t be more than two days. Maybe three, if—” He stops, eyes darting to me.

He can’t—or won’t— continue with me here. It’s not my business, clearly. I’m not privy to this part of their lives. Even as a partner. Even as the man they’ve both admitted to loving.

“I’ll be downstairs,” I tell them, my chest aching. “I’ll let the two of you…talk.”

They don’t stop me. Nolan looks like he might, his lips parting, his breath coming in sharp, but then he drops his chin and curls his shoulders forward, not saying a word. Maison presses a closed fist against his forehead and exhales shakily.

I walk downstairs on shaking legs, hating that I’m naked, that I’m vulnerable. I dip into the laundry room and pull on old sweats and a shirt. It feels a little better, like a barrier between me and the heartbreak I feel almost certain I’m about to endure.

It feels like an eternity, yet no time at all, while I wait for Maison to come downstairs. I try to calm myself as I wait. I focus on my breathing, reminding myself again and again that they have a longer history. They’ve had a whole stretch of time together before I was added. This thing with the three of us, this next step, this partnership—it’s new. I have to give this time. I have to put my instincts and my worry and my control issues aside and be fucking patient.

But I’m not built for that.

I’m so, so bad at that.

I love them.

Why won’t they just let me fucking love them?

Maison comes into the kitchen with soft footsteps. The low lights above the breakfast bar bathe him in a warm orange glow.

He’s dressed, donning dark jeans, a black henley, and a flannel. His eyes stay on the floor for a second, then another. Then he forces himself to look at me. There’s anguish in that look. Guilt.

I hide my shaking hands, not sure what kind of goodbye I’m about to get.

“He wants to stay. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” I say, half-glad we’re focused on Nolan, but half-hurt too. “He’s always welcome. You both are. You should know that.”

“I do. Yeah. Just—uh. Just being polite, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck. I realize his hand is shaking too. Oh, Maison. What have you gotten yourself into? “Can you do one thing for me?”

“Anything.”

“If something—if I don’t—” He ducks his head, and I’m suddenly reminded of the sob I had heard before finding him on the stairs. He sounds close to another one. He presses a hand to his face, sucking in a breath that sounds heavier than it should. Then he looks at me, blue eyes watery and terrified, and says, “If I don’t come back this time, will you take care of him for me?”

My throat tries to close up on me as I process what he’s saying. I can feel my own tears welling up. “What do you mean, if you don’t come back?”

“ Hunter ,” he says, and it’s anguished, desperate. He shakes his head. “You’re too smart to not know I’m into something dangerous. You know about the weapons. About the—” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder. I don’t know if he means his scars or Nolan. It could be both. “Just—I need to know you’ll make sure he’s okay. You have him, right? He’s yours?”

“He’s ours ,” I nearly growl, my fear so easily giving away to anger. “Who is making sure you’re okay? Don’t fucking go, Maison. Whatever this is—say no.”

“It’s complicated. I can’t, okay? You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” I beg.

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. “Don’t ask me to do that. Don’t make the night worse. Please.”

“It would make it worse to explain it?”

His jaw ticks. “It’d make it worse to have to tell you no.”

Oh.

I try to let that sink in. Even if I asked, even if I begged, this is something he truly refuses to share. It might even be the bold red line I’m not allowed to cross, the end of our relationship on the other side of it. Why? Does he not trust me?

It hurts. Not an ache in my chest or a twist in my stomach, but a sharp, searing pain that’s everywhere .

I realized I was going to have hurdles with this man, but I didn’t account for this.

I didn’t account for him having something he seems to put above even Nolan, considering their exchange earlier. Something I don’t even get to know about. Something secret that clearly eats away at them. Something dangerous.

He’s saying I could lose him, saying he could never come back to me, and he won’t even tell me why .

We’re supposed to be more, now. I really thought we’d be more.

I was stupid to think the final roadblock was conquered. There’s still an entire abyss between where we are and where I want us to be. An abyss I don’t get to walk across unless invited. An abyss he doesn’t seem to want to help me navigate. Doesn’t seem to want to even let me see. He and Nolan have a map and a flashlight and they won’t share them.

He can see it on my face. I know he can because his own expression crumples, his head shaking. “ Hunter —”

“Please don’t go.”

His eyes fall closed as his chin wobbles. A single tear spills down his cheek. He whispers, “Don’t.”

“I can’t lose you. Especially without even knowing— no . Just… stay , Maison. Stay with us. Please.”

“ Hunter ,” he says again.

But it’s all he keeps saying. It never goes further. He never gives me more. Not a fucking ounce. It’s just my name, soft, pleading, begging me to let it go.

He looks at me, eyes wide with a new kind of fear, a new kind of sadness. Goddamn him for that. Goddamn him for making me have to tear myself in half between his mental and physical safety.

“Don’t be upset. Please . That’s not fair.”

“Not fair,” I echo, dry, distant almost. Like I can’t believe it. Because I fucking can’t .

I should have known.

Fuck, I should have fucking known.

“Hunter—”

“I told you,” I choke out, my chest aching, my eyes burning. “I told you it was killing me, taking the scraps, taking whatever I can get. I told you that. You said—” I stop, shaking my head because I am such a fucking idiot. I laugh, even. Laugh at my idiocy. Laugh at the fact I’ve managed to get myself here, heartbroken, twice in the same fucking week. “But you didn’t say, did you? You said the two of you love me. You never said that meant I’d get all of you. I shouldn’t have presumed that. Hell, everything we talked about since—I can’t be upset, you’re right. It’s not fair. You never said that was going to change. I assumed. You know what they say about people who do that.”

He moves forward, coming around the end of the breakfast bar. I stumble back a step. He freezes, a choked sound coming from his throat.

“Hunter, please don’t do this. I—you don’t want to know. Okay?”

“I don’t want to know what might keep you from ever coming back to us? Seriously?”

He flinches, his eyes falling away.

I strike during the moment of possible indecision, my heart racing. “What if I safeword? Would you stay?”

Maison’s shoulders slump. He doesn’t look at me, but he nods. He sounds miserable when he says, “Please don’t use that against me. Please. ” He lifts his gaze to mine. There are more tears now, steadily falling. “Don’t ask me to choose, because I’ll choose the two of you, okay? And I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never be able to live with it.”

How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that?

How the fuck am I supposed to say yes?

His phone rings. He flinches, but he doesn’t move to answer it. His eyes stay on me. Waiting. Waiting for me to either break him or break myself.

I already know which option I’ll pick. It’s the same one, every time.

“Promise me you’ll do everything you can to come back to us,” I concede.

For a moment, he looks relieved. Then the dread creeps in. He shuts it down. Shuts himself down.

He moves forward again, suddenly looking sure and strong. A man carrying the weight of the world. A man about to go to a war I can’t see.

I let him cup my face with his shaking hands. Let him bring his mouth to mine in a desperate, teary kiss. Let him just rest his forehead against mine as he tries to breathe. “I will go to the end of the fucking Earth to try to come back to the two of you. I promise, Hunter. Okay? I promise .”

It’s not enough, but he’s begging me to pretend it is.

One more time , I tell myself.

I’ll let him get away with this one more time. I’ll let him do whatever he feels like he needs to do. But when he gets back, it’s all cards on the table. Everyone’s cards. Something has to change. We can’t do this. This isn’t okay. The secrets, the lies, but more than anything, the danger. I can’t let him throw himself to invisible wolves time and time again. At some point, it has to be enough, doesn’t it? What is he fighting for? When is it over?

His phone starts up again.

He releases a resigned sigh before pulling away. His hand is already digging in his pocket as he backs away from me, eyes never leaving mine. “Take care of him. Let him take care of you, too. If one of you needs it, it’s okay to fuck. To play. Just—take care of each other, yeah?”

“Until you get back,” I can’t help but say. “Then we’ll all take care of each other.”

I see him waver. For just a moment, I actually think he might decide to stay home after all. To let us take care of him. To take care of us in return.

He tightens his grip on the phone in his hand. His voice is rough when he asks, “Say you love me?”

I can’t help but smile, even if it’s shaky and sad. “I love you, Maison. I love you very much.”

He exhales, slow and calming. Relieved, maybe. “I love you, too.”

He turns away.

I watch him put the phone to his ear as he hurries toward the door. He doesn’t bother with his jacket, only pausing to stuff his feet in his boots. It takes me a moment to understand why that is weird. Why it sticks.

As he says, “Impatient fucker, I said I was fucking coming,” I realize he must not have his gun. The gun he always keeps in his jacket. The gun he dismantled for me the night he chose to finally give himself to me.

Finally, Maison felt safe enough to come here unarmed.

His reward is getting sent off to war.