Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

30. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Nolan

Hunter climbs into bed with me a few minutes after Maison leaves, wearing comfortable clothes and a sad smile. I wait for him to ask questions or say something, but he just wraps me in his arms and pulls me against his chest, making it so I have to lie down beside him and uncurl the tight little ball of anxiety I’ve made out of my body. His hands run soothingly down my back, pressing harder than usual, like he knows I might be sore from how tense I was. I feel almost dizzy from how easily I melt into him. From the relief of it. The sudden feeling of safety.

It doesn’t take long before my head starts to fill with fear and anger, the two battling it out. Will he ever quit? Is it a job that he loves, or a job he thinks he has to do? Is it penance? Will he ever forgive himself for the things he’s done—the things he had to do?

When will it be enough? When will he let himself rest?

Does he even plan on surviving this career?

Why aren’t we enough for him to stay?

“You’re thinking pretty loudly, darling.” I close my eyes, realizing just how heavy my chest has become as I was allowing myself to spin out. I want to tell him everything I’m thinking. I want to let him carry the load with me, maybe even share some of his own. Together, we can worry about Maison, talk about the future, and make a decision on how to handle this moving forward.

Except, he doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know enough to understand.

It suddenly feels like Hunter is a million miles away, this huge secret wedged right into a crack we’d all been stupidly trying to ignore. It’s so much worse now that we’re supposed to be a unit. It’s a betrayal.

I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what I even can say, so I say nothing.

He just holds me for a long time as I lie there with my cheek on Hunter’s bare chest, staring at the spot in the bed where Maison should be. I can tell Hunter is awake the whole time. I’m not the only one thinking too loudly.

“It’s his job,” I finally say, and I’m not sure if I’m saying it as a simple explanation or if I’m trying to defend him. If it’s the latter, I don’t know if I’m defending him from Hunter, or from myself. Without thinking, I hand over another truth. “I wish it wasn’t.”

Hunter sighs as he begins trailing his fingertips up and down my arm. “Have you told him?”

“No. I—” I stop, wondering how to explain it without giving things away. I can’t tell him I feel like a hypocrite asking him not to go save people when he saved me. I settle with, “I understand why he feels like he needs to.”

“He feels like he needs to, or he actually needs to?” he asks, and even though he doesn’t know the situation, he knows Maison. He’s got his number. I’d feel sorry for my boyfriend if I wasn’t so fucking relieved that Hunter is on the case. As long as Maison lets him be, that is.

I don’t have an answer to the question anyway. The whole survivor’s guilt thing makes it messy.

He doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer anyway, just stroking my arm and pressing a kiss to my hair every so often.

Eventually, he says, “You’re not going to be able to fall back asleep, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s go watch something, then. Cuddle up on the couch. Take our minds off things.”

I have my doubts that it’ll work, but I go along with it anyway. It’s not like it can get any worse than how I’m feeling now. I pull out of his arms, sitting up and turning to look down at him. The rising sun is just high enough for him to be illuminated in muted blues and grays. He looks ruffled and sleepy and warm. That heaviness in my chest fades a little. It’s impossible for it not to, looking at him.

He looks right back, eyes taking in my face and down my neck and over my naked chest and stomach. When he brings his gaze to mine, his hand reaches out. His fingertips are warm and soft as he brushes hair off my forehead. He smiles, and it’s subdued like he’s worrying about the same things as me, but it’s reluctantly happy, too. It’s not hard to smile back.

“Come on. We should eat something. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.” He tosses our blankets to the side, stretching lazily. “I’ll make coffee while you whip up something delicious for us, deal?”

I manage a small laugh. “It definitely won’t be the other way around, sir.”

“Hey, now.” He tries to look hurt, but his smile breaks through, ruining the act. “Those pancakes weren’t so bad!”

“True. Still, you stick to the coffee. You’re just so great at making it, you know?”

His smile becomes more of a smirk. “Pouring water and coffee grounds into a machine and waiting for them to be black liquid? Yes, I’m an expert. I feel so honored you’ve noticed.”

“It’s good that you stay humble, sir.”

“Oh yeah?” He sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me until I topple over. I don’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late—then he’s fucking tickling me. I let loose an embarrassingly high laugh, feet kicking as I squirm and wiggle, trying to escape. “Not so bratty now, are we?”

“N-not—” I laugh harder as his fingers make their way to my ribs. “—a br-ahhhhh!”

He stops, letting me sag into the mattress with a relieved, happy sigh. There’s laughter in his own voice when he says, “You’re not a brat, so don’t go acting like one, darling. Otherwise I’ll have to punish you.”

I swallow hard, torn between wanting to find out what a punishment is like coming from him—a good dom, the best fucking dom, a dom that loves me, my dom, all mine—and the overwhelming desire to be a good boy at all times. “I don’t want to be a brat, sir…”

“Mmm.” He rolls me onto my back, hovering over me. I can feel his hard cock against my hip. My own is rising to meet his stomach. His eyes search mine for a moment before he whispers, “Do you want to be punished even when you’re good? Is that what you’re saying?”

I shiver. Then, tentatively, I nod.

He grins. “That’s something we’ll have to talk about when our boy is back then, isn’t it?”

Our boy, our boy, our boy.

I grin. “Yes, sir.”

He kisses my forehead before carefully climbing off of me and getting off the mattress. His eyes dart down to where my cock is bare and hard and leaking.

My stomach jumps in anticipation. He grins like he can hear my thoughts, see my desires. “Bend over the bed.”

I shake off the blankets as quickly as possible, lucky not to get tangled up in them. I settle on my stomach with my knees nearly on the floor, my back arched to give him my ass. The first smack is harder than his usual warm-ups. I suck in a breath, eyes wide and unseeing for a moment. The second smack is just as hard, though on the opposite cheek. He hums appreciatively, his hands kneading the abused flesh.

Without warning, something cool drips onto my hole. I glance over my shoulder just in time for him to cap the lube bottle. There’s a plug in his right hand, seemingly taken from thin air. It’s bigger than my usual one. I have just enough time to get excited before he’s pressing two fingers straight into my hole. The burn is exquisite, pulling me out of my messy thoughts and into a space that’s fuzzy and warm. Not subspace, not even near it, but still a mindset that feels awfully fucking nice.

He preps me just enough to be able to press the plug in without damage. It’s a sharper pain than he usually gives me, followed by a throbbing ache.

“There you go,” Hunter murmurs before playfully tossing a pair of sweatpants onto my head. “Get dressed and cook me breakfast.”

I shiver, trying to adjust to the mixture of arousal and calm. He leaves me there as he gets dressed. I breathe through the sensations. The plug is heavy. Cold. It makes me feel grounded, like the world isn’t going to spin apart at the seams without Maison here. I don’t know the psychology behind that. I honestly don’t care.

I don’t realize I’m drifting until sir is suddenly beside me, fully dressed as he crouches by my hip. He places a warm hand on my cheek, thumb stroking along my jaw. “You ready yet, darling?”

“Yeah.” I blink, coming back to myself a little. There’s still a distance, still a barrier between me and the chaos of my reality, but it’s easier to navigate now that he’s brought me back. Especially because he’s smiling at me like I handed him a prize or something instead of just lying here. “I mean, yes, sir. I’m ready.”

He shakes his head, murmuring, “Fucking perfect,” to himself.

Then he helps me stand and dresses me himself, giving me quiet prompts of where to put my hands or when to lift my legs. When he has me all bundled up in my sweatpants and Maison’s sweatshirt, he takes my hand and leads me downstairs.

I hate having to separate from him in order to cook. It feels like ice seeping into the edge of that warm space. Without noticing, I begin to shake from the cold. Something prickles along my skin as I try to focus on the omelet I’m making. It feels itchy but too sensitive, like if I dared to try itching, it would be painful instead of relieving.

My teeth have just started to chatter when a body suddenly presses against my back, one arm wrapping around my waist, the other lining up with my right arm so his hand can join mine where I’m fisting the spatula like it’s the only weapon against the horror of the world.

“Shh.” He presses a kiss beneath my ear as he works on prying my fingers off the spatula and taking it from me. “I’m right here. You’re okay.”

I blink when I realize everything is blurry. A few tears spill down my cheeks, my vision clearing enough to see smoke curling out of the pan. I choke on a sob. “Oh no!”

“Shh. It’s okay. It’s fine.” He scoops the omelet out of the pan and onto a waiting plate, flipping it as he does. “Not that bad, see? Just a little brown. Think it was that cheese there that was smoking. I think it’ll still be delicious.”

I sob, not choking on it this time. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, darling…” He makes sure the stove is off before turning me in his arms to hold me to his chest. He’s such a good dom, good boyfriend. He knows what’s really wrong. He knows this has nothing to do with the eggs, not really. He proves that by saying, “He’s going to be okay. Our boy is smart. Skilled. He’ll come back to us, Nolan. He will.”

“What if—”

“He will ,” he says firmly.

There’s no other choice but to believe him. I don’t think I’ll get through this otherwise. This is so much worse than the one other time he left for a mission, when the operatives and Casey went to the house of the man who sold Casey to Jake. There’d been more information then. A ton of planning. I had heard from multiple sources that it should be relatively easy. I had seen them studying the layout of the house and watching surveillance videos. The fact that they were bringing Casey at all was a testament to how confident they all felt about the safety of the operation.

This mission was secretive. Vague. The call to leave was last minute. The details—even to Maison, according to him—weren’t clear. He claims not to even know the location or other logistics. He wasn’t even sure if Travis was joining them.

I register that I’m being moved around, but only manage to pull myself out of my sticky thoughts when I feel my knees connecting against something hard. He has me kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, no cushion. His hand grips my hair in a tight fist. My breath comes in sharp. My head clears.

I look up to find him nodding, like he just tested something and got the answer he figured he would. “Sir is going to have to hurt you today, aren’t I, darling?”

My bottom lip wobbles. “I—I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry. I can try harder, to stay present.”

“I’m not saying I’ll hurt you as a punishment. I just want to ground you. I don’t mind when you drift to happy places. In fact, I love helping you get into that headspace. But I can tell when it’s not a happy place your mind is in, and I don’t want to leave you there when that’s the case. I think that’s going to be the case a lot today. Maybe every day he’s gone, for however long it takes.” He uses the hold on my hair to tilt my head back. His eyes are darker than usual, more on the brown side of hazel than the usual green. He skims his fingertips down from my temple to my chin. “Do you think pain would help? To have welts that will throb and remind you? Or any other physical sensation that might help you?”

For just a moment, I swear I feel the ghost of a collar around my throat.

It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve let myself think about that. It hasn’t been an important element. I missed kneeling and submitting a lot more than having a simple collar, and a collar was never on the table with Maison.

It’s not on the table now.

But there’s something else that’s close to a collar, something restrictive, something that will be heavy against my skin.

“Do you have cages, sir?” I ask.

His eyebrows rise for a moment before smoothing out. “I do. Would that help?”

“That and maybe—maybe some marks? Please?”

“Shh. Of course, darling. You don’t have to beg.” He steps back, releasing my hair. His eyes take me in for a moment before he offers me his hand and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s get you settled.”

It worked better than I thought it would.

He was the perfect dom, unsurprisingly. He brought me to the guest room instead of his own, laying me out on my back with my legs spread. After a small trip to the bathroom and grabbing a black box from one of the drawers of the dresser, he came back to me. He slipped a towel under me before running his fingertips all along my thighs and across my lower stomach. He told me how he loves that I wax myself for him. That it makes me seem like an even needier little subbie. That I’m such a good, perfect boy.

In the end, he’d needed an ice cube to get me soft enough to fit in the cage. It had made me shivery in a good way. Made me feel owned and loved and grounded.

“You aren’t coming out of this until he’s back,” he had told me, sounding so fucking sure that it would happen, that Maison would come home to us. I had been dizzy with the relief of his control over me. His control over the whole situation. “Understood?”

And I’d agreed easily.

Then he’d turned me onto my stomach and caned me. It was awful. I fucking hate the cane. But it was a clarifying kind of awful. A pain so excruciating and brilliant that it can’t be ignored. He’d given me three, right across both ass cheeks, thankfully avoiding my sit spot. While still red and burning, he’d pulled the plug from my ass and fucked me hard, leaving bruises and fingernail crescents at my hips. I’d sobbed so hard my voice was hoarse at the end of it all.

He’d plugged me again, hushing me as my cries slowly tapered off, his hands gentle as he smoothed a cool gel over the welts. I’d drifted—this time in a very happy place—while he got our omelet and some juice. We’d shared, him feeding me bites by hand and helping me sip with a straw.

Now, as he sits on the couch with me kneeling at his feet, I find myself so fucking thankful for all of that. For the cage and the welts. For his cum in my ass, held in by the plug.

I don’t look at the fireplace as he turns the TV on. I don’t think about how the only one of us who can make a fire isn’t here. I don’t wonder where he is. I don’t wonder if he’s okay. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.

My throat tightens with the urge to cry. Maison should be here. I want the both of them. The three of us. I want safety and happiness. I want to stop fighting. When is he going to stop fighting?

I turn on my cushion, my throat squeezing. “Sir?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Can I come up there with you? I just—I want to be held…is that okay?”

His whole body softens. “That’s more than okay, Nolan. Come on up.”

He opens his arms, letting me climb up and settle across his lap. Then he pulls a throw blanket off of the back of the couch and drapes it over us. It’s a safe little cocoon. The way my knees are drawn up makes my caged cock press into my stomach a little. The fabric of my pants is a little irritating on my welts. He smells like himself, all warm and spicy. Just the in and out of his breaths is grounding.

“This is nice,” I admit, my cheeks heating as if this is anywhere near scandalous, especially compared to the things we’ve gotten up to before. “We haven’t really cuddled a lot.”

“Which is funny. I’ll have you know, I’m a bit of a cuddle slut.”

I laugh. “So is Maison. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“I’m not too concerned. Have you noticed that Mr. Bad Ass seems to be losing his act around me these days? I bet if I asked him to cuddle, he’d melt into a beautiful blushing mess.”

“Okay, I take it back, you can absolutely tell him I told you.”

He laughs, all warm and syrupy, before adjusting me so my head can fit perfectly on his shoulder and I can see the TV.

“I’m assuming Maison would be sad if we continued our superhero marathon without him, so we’re back to square one on what to watch.”

“What have you been watching on your own?”

He smirks. “A documentary series about the Vietnam War.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

“I’m a history nerd. I can’t help myself.”

“That’s what you teach at the college, right? History?” I ask, realizing I really don’t know much about him. He likes to watch Maison and me, usually sitting quietly as the two of us do our thing, studying us, enjoying us. He’s spent the last week soaking in everything we were willing to share with him. I feel awful as I realize we didn’t do the same. Not nearly enough, at least.

“Yes, I do.” He sounds brighter, almost excited, to be asked about his job. It’s kind of adorable.

“Like—all of history? Or a specific time or something?”

“Well, each degree needs at least one history class as a general education credit, so us newer professors get to teach those classes, which are always very broad in scope and time. I’m an expert on World War II, so I teach a class about the war from the American perspective, then from the European perspective, then from the Japanese perspective. Those rotate, though, all three aren’t available every semester. Right now, we’re doing it from the European perspective. I also have a class on the impact of society on war and vice versa, examining things like propaganda and economy and workforce changes. Then I—well,” he pauses, looking away from me. I don’t understand why until he says, quietly, “This year, I’m co-teaching with a professor from the psychology department.”

I know he doesn’t give me the topic for a reason. I’m nosey, though. Or just a masochist. “What’s that one about?”

He takes a breath. “PTSD, basically. She teaches about the psychological aspect of it, how it develops, how it manifests, as well as how it’s treated—both then and now. I come at the topic from a historical perspective, considering the effect it has on a society as a whole.”

I rest my head back on his shoulder, feeling the sudden urge to hide. I can’t think of anything to say except, “Oh.”

“Nolan, I—” He pauses, taking a deep breath. I hate the hesitation. It’s not him. He’s a confident man. He hardly ever wavers. “I know Maison doesn’t want to share some things with me. I know he might never be willing to.” He takes another breath. “But the two of you can always talk to me about what you’re dealing with, okay? Even if you have to be vague. Even if you have to leave parts out. And if you ever need me to back off about it, you can just tell me and I’ll respect it. I won’t push. But I’m here.”

“What gave me away?” I ask, trying to sound amused and failing pretty hard.

“I put some things together. It wasn’t hard, once you opened up a little during our negotiation talk last week.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I think most of all, though, is Maison’s protective behavior. The level he brings it to with you isn’t just a worried boyfriend—it’s a scared one. It’s a man who has lost someone or come damn close to it. A man who has failed at protecting before, or feels like he failed, which is just as harmful. He’s not possessive of you, he’s defensive.”

I don’t know if I’m relieved that he’s talking like I’m the only one with PTSD or disappointed. A part of me hoped he’d figured it out for Maison, too. Without that information, he won’t be able to give Maison what he needs, not fully. It’s not my place to tell him, though.

“You still want me? Knowing I’m—knowing I have that kind of baggage?”

“Nothing about either of your pasts could make me not want you, Nolan. My love isn’t conditional.”

Either of your pasts.

I can’t help it. I have to know. “Have you figured out Maison too?”

He hesitates, but admits, “Yes. To a point, at least. It’s clear there’s a story. Multiple stories, probably. I have a feeling it’s not all related to war, either. The kind of marks he has—those don’t come from a battlefield.”

“No,” I whisper, feeling unbelievably relieved that he sees this. “They don’t.”

“Do they—” He stops himself, shaking his head.

“No, you can ask,” I say, even as I curl my hands into the fabric of his shirt to hide that they’re shaking. “If I can’t answer, I’ll tell you.”

He seems to consider it still. He runs his fingers along my back as he does, the sensation muted by Maison’s sweatshirt, but somehow still as good. It feels like both of them are touching me this way, Hunter and Maison together against my skin. It’s probably silly, but I like the thought too much to push it away.

“I was going to ask if his scars come from the same source as yours, but I don’t think I want you to answer that. As much as it kills me to be in the dark about all of your struggles, I don’t want to know his part until he’s ready to tell me himself.”

I want to ask what will happen if Maison is never ready, but I’m too afraid of the answer.

“Do you like teaching history?”

If the clear shift in topic bothers him, he doesn’t show it. “I love it. Even the more basic classes. You have no idea how many students never got important information about conflicts or movements because of the bias of their textbooks. I think that’s important, you know? How will we keep from repeating history if we don’t know it.” He laughs, the sound surprisingly self-conscious. “Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.”

I grin, falling just a little more in love after seeing this side of him. “I’d come to listen to you every day.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “What about you? You give me a talk.”

“About what?”

“What do you want to do, Nolan? What do you want from your future, outside of Maison and me?”

It’s a startlingly sudden shift in tone. Maybe that’s why I find myself pouring out the truth so easily. “I want to learn how to cook. To really cook. I don’t think I need a degree or anything, like professional chefs, but some classes, maybe?”

He lights up. “I bet there are certificates you can go for, if you’d rather not get the degree. Or even just a class or two. What do you want to do with the knowledge? I know the program offers some business management and things like that, too.”

“How do you even know that?” I ask, trying to avoid answering his question.

“One of my good friends graduated from the program, actually. He just recently opened his own restaurant.”

“I don’t want that,” I admit. “I don’t want to be, like, a professional.”

He nods, but I can see in his eyes that he’s slightly confused. I already know what he’s going to ask before he asks it. “Then what do you want?”

I have to look away from him before I can even really think about it. The truth is, I could probably learn what I need to online or by watching videos. I have a lot of the basic techniques down, but I know there are plenty of resources for the advanced stuff too. There’s just something about Carter being at college and making friends and loving the experience that has me wanting to try it out. I also think it’d make me feel better about what and how I cook, since I’m still serving my food to other people even if they don’t pay for it.

Back at the safehouse, I considered staying there permanently. I thought maybe I could cook for other people that show up down the road. Then everyone wanted to leave and I wanted to be with them more than I wanted that, so I left.

“You don’t have to know,” Hunter says softly when I don’t answer. “They won’t make you justify yourself when you sign up for classes. Take one or two. See if you like it. Go from there.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Just think about it. This isn’t me trying to push you to do it or anything, but I see it as one of my jobs as your partner and your dom to help you chase your goals and be happy and fulfilled in all areas of your life.” He strokes my cheek, smiling almost to himself. “No matter how long it takes. I just can’t wait to be a part of it.”

Something flickers in his eyes. I know what it is. The shape of it, at least. A few inches over six feet and eyes like a storm.

“He’ll let you be a part of his, too,” I promise without the right to. “It’ll just take some time.”

“Is it—” He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Does he not trust me, yet? Should I work with him on building that up some more?”

“No. No, that’s not it at all. He trusts you. He does . It’s just—it’s him . It’s a wall. I don’t know what it’s going to take for him to break it.”

There’s so much pain in his eyes when he says, “He broke it for you.”

“No, Hunter. He didn’t. I just happened to find him there, behind it. I—” I pause, considering my words carefully. He needs to understand how big this is, how deep the trauma reaches, but I don’t know how to do that without giving things away that aren’t mine to give. “Hunter, I—” I grit my teeth, shaking my head. My hands are shaking. I shift purposefully, aggravating the marks on my ass, making the metal cage jump just a touch against my thigh as it’s jostled.

Hunter turns me until I’m straddling him, my caged cock nestled against his stomach. His hands circle my hips before slipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants to glide along my ass cheeks. I hiss at the near-electric pain of his fingernails suddenly dragging across the welts. I try to jolt forward, to escape the hurt, but his hands squeeze until I’m frozen in place.

“You don’t have to tell me, if it’s going to upset you,” he murmurs, his grip starting to gently pulse. “Be here with me, okay? I want you here. The secrets and confessions can wait. With Maison gone, all this worry…let’s just be here, okay? The rest can wait.”

“I think we should watch that documentary, the one you’ve been watching,” I decide. “How far into it are you? Would you be able to fill me in?”

He nearly laughs. “Maybe a different one. I’m five episodes in and there’s quite a lot to cover. Do you want a history one or some other kind? Or a movie or TV show instead?”

“Something that will make me think,” I say. “Something distracting. You pick.”

That’s how we end up watching a show about the ancient pyramids, of all things. It works though.

At least, for a while.