Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

Hunter

There’s a knock on my door just as Nolan is showing me how to properly chop carrots. Apparently there is a way to do it wrong—many ways, actually—and it turns out I’m great at all of them. I still have one clasped in my hand when I go to answer, a grin on my face. The door swings open, delivering me a sharp hit of relief at the sight of Maison. He’s back. He came back. Oh thank fucking god.

Then I register that he’s not alone. There’s a man on each side of him. The man from Thanksgiving—Keats, I think his name was—and… shit . Travis.

Travis raises an accusing eyebrow at me. I can’t focus on that, though. Because Maison is standing here, alive, safe, having come back to me, but he’s not standing on his own. He’s being propped up.

And there’s blood.

The carrot drops to the floor.

“Let us in, yeah?” Keats asks, glancing over his shoulder with a wince. It seems Maison isn’t the only one interested in keeping things secretive.

They can have their secrets, as long as he’s okay.

I stumble back, clearing the way as I fight down the urge to panic. This isn’t the time for that. This is the time for dom-mode. This is the time for me to be calm and controlled. To be the man he needs me to be. To be the man who promised him everything would be okay.

Nolan appears then, eyes wide and glassy. He steps forward, toward the couch where Keats is already starting to lower Maison. Then he steps back and turns, his eyes finding Travis. They narrow in a flash. There’s a real anger in his voice, surprisingly harsh, when he asks, “What the fuck happened?”

Travis doesn’t look surprised in the least, like he’s used to that kind of tone from a man who is usually so unbelievably kind and soft-spoken. “Shit went bad. He was double-teamed.”

“And where the fuck were you?” Nolan asks, his voice starting to crack now as his anger fades in place of other emotions. “Why didn’t he have backup?”

“Hey, Nol, shh, baby. Hey. Come here,” Maison calls from where Keats is placing him on the couch, waving his hand in our direction. He has one leg on the couch, the other on the damn coffee table. His words are slurring, I realize. Hopefully from pain meds and not blood loss. He gives Nolan a dopey smile. “Come here. Don’t yell at Trav. Missed you.”

Nolan wavers before hurrying over, unable to stop himself from going to the man he loves, even with his emotions raging. He kneels beside the couch. Maison seems high enough not to be bothered by the position, just grinning wider at our boy.

“You idiot ,” Nolan rasps, a tear slipping down his cheek.

“Such an idiot,” Maison agrees happily. “Don’t be mad at Trav. Not his fault. Not anyone’s fault.”

Nolan leans forward, resting his forehead against Maison’s shoulder. He exhales. It comes out thick and shaky, just on the edge of a sob.

The smile slides off Maison’s face. “Oh. Hey. No. It’s okay.”

Nolan loses it then, sobbing hard.

I look at Travis, feeling helpless. Nolan needs me. They both do. But Maison’s fucking hurt and he’s too fucked up to give me anything valuable.

“So, this is a thing…” Travis muses, gesturing a hand at the room around us. I know he means the relationship, though. The three of us. “What exactly… is this?”

“Complicated. How bad is it?”

“This?”

“The injury . How bad is he? Does he need a hospital?”

Travis’s eyebrows pull in. “He can’t go to a hospital.”

“Why? I mean—does he have to go to an Army one? Is there not one nearby? Surely, they’d let him go to a regular one if it’s an emergency. That has to be illegal. They can’t stop him from getting treatment.”

“An Army hosp—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “We—”

“We should go,” Keats says, overly loud in an obvious takeover of the conversation. He gives Travis a pointed look. I don’t know him enough to know what the look means, but considering the context and how secretive Maison is, I think it’s safe to bet he’s telling Travis to shut the fuck up before he says something I can’t know. My stomach drops. Is this another barrier? Can Maison not tell me his secrets, even once he decides he wants to? Would his friends not let him?

Jesus .

I want to scream. Want to cry.

Then Keats says, “Any information should come from Maison, regarding circumstances. As for the injury, he doesn’t need a hospital. It’s a minor graze.”

The words calm me in more ways than one, assuring me that the secrets might still have a chance of being shared while also making me feel better about his well-being.

Except— “Graze?”

“From a bullet,” Keats says with a shrug. An actual fucking shrug. Like it’s no big deal. “I’ll text Nolan the instructions for taking care of it, but once Maison isn’t high off his ass he’ll know what to do. Really, he just needs to rest. Take it easy. Keep the wound clean and dry and elevated. I put some of the good stuff in his pocket for the pain. He can have it every six hours, starting in an hour. If you guys need anything, just call us.”

A bullet.

I knew, in theory. I knew whatever he was off doing would probably involve weapons. Involve combat of some kind. But to have him here, bleeding, his friends talking about bullet wounds as if they’re commonplace—it’s jarring.

“Thank you. For bringing him here,” I say, but it sounds like someone else is talking almost. Like I’m floating. Is this what subspace is like? It can’t be. This is fucking awful. “I’ve got him now.”

Keats smirks almost knowingly, saluting me with two fingers. He grabs Travis by the bicep and starts dragging him to the door, both of us ignoring when he asks, “But, seriously, why did we bring him here? Why was Nolan here?”

Just before closing the door behind them, I hear Keats say, “I’ll tell you when you’re older, sweetie.”

I nearly laugh. Then I look over at the couch and reality settles in. It feels like I should do something. Grab a first-aid kit or an ice pack or some fucking acetaminophen. But Maison is staring at me, wide-eyed and helpless as Nolan continues to sob, and I realize all of that can wait. Keats and Travis wouldn’t have brought him here on the brink of death. They would have stabilized him first. He’s fine now. Not in any danger. Keats said so. He wouldn’t lie.

I go to them.

Nolan shifts, making room for me as he tries to gather himself. His hands are trembling violently as he wipes at his cheeks. “I’m okay,” he lies. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“ He’s okay,” I say instead, putting a hand to his cheek and stroking it with my thumb. “Maison is okay, darling. He’s right here. He came home safe.”

He starts sobbing again, clambering to my lap to bury his face in the hollow beneath my throat. I wrap him up in my arms and hold him close, reaching a hand for Maison at the same time. He’s crying, too, gentle tears rolling down his cheeks as he watches us. His breath is shaky when he releases it, his voice the same as he says, “Make him stop.”

“He’s allowed to cry, kitten. You scared him. You scared both of us.” I stroke the stretch of skin beneath the line of his short sleeve. His eyes flutter, the drugs and pleasant feeling pulling him closer to sleep. “We’re so happy you’re home.”

He stops trying to open his eyes, his body relaxing into the couch. “ Home ,” he says, the word barely more than a soft sigh.

I can tell he slips away from us just seconds later, drifting off into a place I hope his nightmares can’t reach him.

“Don’t let him do it again,” Nolan begs, his fingers digging painfully into my back. “Make him stop, sir. Please.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and make a promise I once made to the man we love. “I’ll figure it out.”

Nolan and I don’t have the luxury of pain meds and exhaustion, nor do we want to leave Maison behind in the living room, so we cuddle up on the end of the couch with Maison’s feet against my thigh and Nolan in my lap. We put the pyramid documentary back on, but I can tell his mind is a million miles away. I don’t try pulling him back. Not when my own is just as bad.

I feel sick with the amount of questions I have. No matter how many times I tell myself I can’t get any answers until Maison is in a proper state of mind, it doesn’t get any easier to let go.

I know one thing, at least. This is over. No more secrets. No more disappearing and coming back injured, with what I’m pretty fucking certain isn’t even his blood spattered on the skin below his goddamn ear.

The documentary ends at some point. I don’t know how long we sit there without it playing, only noticing when I’m drawn back to the present by Nolan starting to tremble.

“Hey,” I whisper, shifting him in my lap until he’s straddling me instead of sitting sideways. I cup his cheeks. They’re tacky with dried tear-tracks and wet with fresh ones. His poor bottom lip is bitten nearly bloody. He starts shaking harder as our gazes meet. “Hey, now. Breathe. It’s okay. He’s here. He’s okay.”

“You’ll figure it out?” he asks.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“It’s—it’s bad, sir. It’s big. He—I don’t think he’ll ever pick me. Pick us . I’m too afraid to—to ask.” He falls forward, hiding his face as he starts to cry again. “What if he doesn’t pick us? What if he won’t stop?”

I cup the back of his head and look over. My breath catches when I see Maison watching us, his brow furrowed. He has tears of his own falling down his cheeks.

I knew these men would break me, but I never thought it’d be like this. This pain is visceral. It’s bone-deep and soul-crushing. It makes me feel like I won’t just lose them if this thing doesn’t work out, but lose myself.

Maison looks away first, his eyes falling closed.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say again. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

I tell them we all need sleep. I corral them into the downstairs bedroom, not confident we can get Maison up the stairs even with his painkillers having worn off. Maison sits up for me as I carefully peel his shirt off. There’s more blood just beneath the neckline of it.

“Nolan, can you please go get a bowl of warm soapy water and two washcloths?”

“Yes, sir.”

Maison’s hands find my waist, clinging to my belt. The marks on his knuckles are nearly healed. There are fresh scratch marks just beneath them, down the back of his hand to his wrist. Not deep enough to bleed or worry about, but definitely noticeable. His throat looks a little swollen, like someone tried choking him.

“You were in a fight,” I find myself saying despite promising myself I’d keep my mouth shut for now.

He doesn’t tell me to let it go. He doesn’t make up a lie. He just leans forward until his forehead is pressed to my stomach and says, “Yes. A few.”

“You won?” I ask, feeling a stupid spike of fear despite having him right here, safe with me.

“I won. Always do.”

“Until the time you don’t…”

His fingers flex against me. “Y-yeah. Until then.”

“Would you stop? If I asked?” I close my eyes like I can hide from the question. Hide from his answer. “Or is he right? Would you not pick us?”

He manages to say, “It’s not—” and then he starts to cry.

So much crying, these boys of mine. I have no fucking idea how I’ve managed to keep myself from it tonight. Maybe because I know if I start, I’ll never stop. They need me too much for that. I can’t fall apart tonight. Later. I’ll fall apart later. Not tonight.

“What happened?” Nolan asks, his voice breaking. He hurries over, the water in the bowl splashing a little. I catch the bowl before he can drop it. “What’s wrong?”

Maison has already pulled away, running his hand over his face.

“He’s okay,” I promise, dipping a cloth into the bowl as Nolan settles behind Maison with his hands on his shoulders. “It’s just an emotional night. Everyone needs to sleep. We all just—we need to sleep.”

“I can clean myself,” Maison says. It’s not an argument, though. It’s more ashamed. As if he thinks I shouldn’t have to do this for him.

“I want to.” I tuck the cloth up behind his ear before slowly dragging it down, leaving a trail of clean skin behind as I move toward his clavicle. “Just let me take care of you. Be good for me.”

And he does.

He lets me undress him until he’s naked. Lets me clean him. Dry him. He lets me check the edges of his bandages. Dress him in fresh underwear. He lets me bring him a bottle of water and two packets of extra-strength Tylenol from the aftercare basket. Tuck him into the bed.

Nolan is next as Maison watches with heavy-lidded eyes. I go to get the soapy water and cloth this time, telling Nolan to undress while I do. I find him sitting on the edge of the mattress, naked and waiting. I wipe his face clean of tears and snot. Then I lay him back and carefully remove the cage that’s been helping to keep him grounded. A cage I told him wouldn’t be removed until our boy returned.

More tears well up in his eyes as I say, “He came back to us, see?”

He stifles a sob, nodding. I kiss him, slow and reassuring, then guide him to Maison’s side of the bed and tell him to curl up with him.

“What about you, sir?” he asks, sounding just as tired as Maison looks.

“I’ll be right there. Just give me a few minutes to clean everything up, lock the doors, and turn the lights out. Get comfortable for me, okay?”

His eyes are already sliding shut. “M’kay, sir.”

“Promise you’ll come?” Maison mumbles. “You’ll join us?”

“Promise.”

I lean over, kissing each of their foreheads.

I pull the door nearly closed behind me, my legs starting to feel weak and wobbly as I hurry toward the front door. I’m already pulling my phone out of my pocket before I’ve even managed to shove my feet into my boots. I forget a jacket. I don’t give a fuck about it.

Travis answers almost immediately, sighing before he says, “I thought maybe you’d be calling.”

“What the fuck,” I growl.

“Hey, man, I feel the same. Since when are you—I don’t even know how to describe it. Since when are you with them? Fucking them? Friends with them?”

“You don’t get to ask questions. It’s my turn.”

“I’m not telling you where he was or what he was doing, Hunter. It’s not my place.”

“I don’t want to hear it from you. I want him to tell me. To tell me everything. I already know Nolan wants that, too, including the things Nolan was involved in.” I close my eyes, feeling a headache forming from the effort of holding back tears. “But I’m pretty fucking sure his story involves you and Carter. Can you—will you please tell him that it’s okay for him to tell it? The whole story?”

Travis hesitates. “I’ll need to ask Carter, but…yeah. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

“Can you ask now? Or soon? I need this from him. Tomorrow, probably. I can’t do this anymore. I’m drowning in their secrets.”

“What if it ruins things? You knowing, I mean.”

“It won’t.”

“The story isn’t a happy one, Hunter. It’s dark. Complicated. There’s—the lines aren’t clear, between good and bad.”

“It won’t ,” I say again.

He makes a noise, thoughtful. “I’ll text you the minute he says it’s okay. You can show that to Maison or have him call if he’d rather.”

It’s a strange sensation, what I feel as he says that. It’s relieving. So fucking relieving. It’s also terrifying. With everyone’s permission, there’s no reason for Maison to keep his secrets. No reason other than he’s not willing to let me in.

Travis seems to be having the same thoughts because he says, “He might not tell you, still.”

“I know.”

“Will that ruin it?” he asks.

The first of what will probably be a whole lot of tears tonight spills down my cheek. My chest burns with the effort it takes to breathe without making a wrecked sort of sound.

I hang up because I can’t give him an answer. I don’t have one. I’m afraid of it more than anything else.

I promised I’d never let Maison ruin this, but what if that means he ruins me instead?

We’re all seated at the table, Nolan hunched over his bowl of oatmeal, Maison adjusting his arm every few seconds, trying to get it to rest on the table in a way that doesn’t hurt. There’s coffee that none of us have touched. Nolan’s cushion is still in the corner where I keep it. He hadn’t so much as looked in its direction this morning. He hadn’t asked to make breakfast, either. He just slumped down at the table, blue eyes distant and unseeing.

I curl my hands around my warm mug just to feel something other than the empty, awful sensation building in my chest.

“I spoke with Travis last night,” I say, each word feeling taut and forced. Maison’s chin snaps up as his gaze zeroes in on me. “He and Carter are giving permission for their stories to be shared, alongside the two of yours. Everything, his text this morning said. Whatever you feel is necessary.”

Something flickers in Maison’s eyes before he closes them, his chin dipping down again.

There’s a long silence. I hate it. I don’t want them to make me beg for this. I don’t want to drag it out of them. I don’t want to be the man who gives the people he loves ultimatums.

I don’t want to break my promise and let this be ruined.

I don’t want to be ruined.

I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. I can’t control this. I can’t—

“I was taken from a college bar,” Nolan says. I look over at him, my heart stuttering. He’s still staring down at his bowl. His hands are on either side of it, trembling against the wooden table. “I think they drugged me, like my drink. I was never a big drinker. I don’t know. It’s not like they told me, you know? Not like they let me ask questions.” He curls his hands into fists. “I gave in. Fast. Faster than—probably faster than I should have. I don’t know. I—it hadn’t been that long since I discovered kink and they just—there was no getting out. Not then, at least. The metal bars and the chains and the shock collar.” Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it, holding perfectly still so as not to scare him off. “It was pointless, fighting. I just didn’t understand it. Everyone was tossing themselves at the captors like waves against a rock and I was sleeping and getting food and—and I just thought…God, I don’t know. It was easier, the way I was doing it. If we had any shot in hell of getting out, it wasn’t going to be starved and tired and beaten half to death.”

He closes his eyes. “Maybe I was lying to myself. Maybe even in the beginning, a sick part of me was okay with what they were going to do. I don’t know. It was foggy. I think—I think maybe they were still drugging me, for a while. And I told myself a lot of things. There was so much time. They don’t show that, in movies and shows, I mean. They don’t show the hours on end of just sitting there waiting for the next horror to hit. Gives you a lot of time to think yourself into circles.”

“Thinking clearly in that kind of situation is impossible, even without drugs,” Maison says so damn earnestly, reaching his hand out to touch one of Nolan’s fists. “The psychology of it is proven, baby.”

Nolan laughs, watery and sad, giving him a smile that matches. “We don’t have to do that again. Talk about me not deserving what happened. I—I know now. That kink is okay. That—that what I wanted before they took me didn’t make me deserve what they did. That’s not what this is about. I got off-topic. Sorry.”

He wipes his free hand across his cheeks. His chin starts to tilt toward me, but he stops, dropping it instead. I tell myself I’m not allowed to be hurt by him not wanting to look at me right now. This isn’t about me. It’s not fucking about me at all.

It’s killing me, though.

“Travis bought me.”

The world goes eerily quiet. Cold.

The air in my lungs is needle-sharp and toxic.

“He wasn’t Travis, though. He was undercover. Deep undercover.”

“As a cop?” I ask.

“Um. No. It’s like…” He trails off, looking at Maison with his brow furrowed.

Maison rubs at his stubbled chin, taking a moment. “We’re all former military. We were recruited with the unspoken assumption that the CIA was behind everything. I don’t think it was, though. Whatever—or whoever —controlled and funded us, I think it was private.”

“You never met them?”

“No. I was the head of Travis’s team. Jake and Ace were also a part of it. They had met me, but no higher. I’d met the guy above me, but no higher. I’m not sure how far the chain went. I’m not sure what’s at the top.”

It makes sense. The military and police can’t do that kind of undercover work. I know they can break up rings, lead raids, even do stings where they pretend to be a victim or perpetrator to trap others, but this is something else. I can sense the insidiousness of it. This was a deep, dark thing.

“For how long?” I ask.

Maison answers first, surprisingly. “I was recruited just under eleven years ago.”

There are so many questions. It’s a twisted, terrified mess in my head. I’d give anything for a notebook. Not only for the organizational benefit, but for something to concentrate on. Something to keep my hands busy so I don’t go grabbing at them when I don’t think the touch would be welcome.

I go with the most important ones first.

“Is it over?”

“The undercover operation?” Maison asks. I nod. “Yeah. It’s been over for a few months now.”

“Then why were you just gone? Where did you go?”

Maison’s expression twists before he shrinks back and looks away. I glance at Nolan to find him in a similar position.

“Okay. Forget my questions. I’m sorry. Just—just tell me what you can. Tell me about the operation.”

“We wanted to give all the traffickers a target. Some hero who was trying to take all of them down. It took any suspicion off of Travis if there was ever any reason for it. No one would think he was undercover or a rat if he hated the guy as much as everyone else. If the guy kept calling him out as one of the people he planned on taking down.” Maison runs a hand through his hair, eyes downcast. “I had a different identity. They wiped my past, made it so even if someone reverse-image-searched my face, it’d show up as the story instead of reality. Then I stayed on the move. I kept myself off the grid. The only breadcrumbs they ever found were ones we planted for them.

“It also gave them a reason to work together more than they usually would. Coalitions started forming. It was the perfect mix of panic and power-hungry, and over the course of the decade, Travis systematically worked until he was chosen to lead the entire region. Having things organized made it easier to keep everyone safe. Otherwise, it’d be a little guy getting caught, ratting on a bigger guy, who would rat on a bigger guy, and so on—all under the radar because no one communicated. There’d be no warning. This way, if someone got snagged, they could handle it.”

He stops then, looking down at his hands. They’ve stopped trembling. He rubs the tip of his thumb over his knuckles, tracing the marks his pain has left behind. His voice is softer as he continues. “They hated me. God, they—I was number one on their lists. Even major players in Europe and Asia knew me, and they weren’t part of the operation area.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

His lips quirk. “It was, at first. Then I settled. I got to know the people on my team and the guy who I reported to. I started trusting them. Trusting they’d keep me safe. I created my own network of contacts. I’d figured out a way to see Carter every so often. Figured out a way to call him. It was good. It was—” His voice cracks. “It was good .”

“Okay. Shh. Hey. Shh.” I place a hand on his shoulder, sensing his incoming panic. “Take a breath.”

He sucks in a breath.

And then he starts to hyperventilate.

“Hey, look at me. Look .” I grab his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. I take one of his hands and place it on my chest. “Breathe with me. Just breathe. In. Hey, in , Maison. Breathe in. Good boy. Now, out. Yeah. Like that.”

Nolan hovers by his chair as I talk him down. He’s still shivery when his breathing is even. His head is turned away again.

I can’t anymore. I can’t just sit here while he falls apart. I need more control. I need a place where we can all be pressed together, where I can hold them close.

“Come on.” I stand on wobbly legs, squeezing Nolan’s shoulder until he stands, then moving to Maison. I offer him my hand. He sees it, I know he does, but he doesn’t take it. I lower myself until we’re at eye level and grab his chin. It trembles beneath my touch. There’s terror in the blue of his eyes when they finally meet mine. Anguish. Guilt.

It’s a storm of emotions I haven’t seen in him since the pub.

I slide so easily into dom-mode, it’s almost like the first breath after having your head underwater.

“We’re going to our room, if you think you can do the stairs.”

His whole body jerks with his next inhale. He parts his lips, then stops and shakes his head. I don’t push, even though I’m desperate to know what he wanted to say.

When I offer my hand this time, he takes it.

I lead them upstairs and onto the bed, pulling Maison in so his injured side is sinking into the mattress, his stomach pressed along the length of me. I drag Nolan nearly on top of me so they can easily get their hands on each other.

One of my hands settles in Maison’s hair, gently carding through the mess of loose curls. The other settles at the base of Nolan’s spine, beginning to slowly stroke along it in soothing motions.

After all of our breathing has synchronized and their bodies are lax, I say, “It was good, until it wasn’t.”

Maison shudders. “Y-yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Last spring, someone found my identity. My real one. I don’t know how, for sure. They didn’t find out about the operation or about the others, which was always strange to me. I think they were following me or something. Carter got hurt, at college. I went to see him. I was careful. Fuck, Hunter, I promise I was careful. But just days later he was—was gone. He was fucking gone and there was—there was a picture in an email—” His voice breaks, his shoulders curling forward.

I don’t like where this is going.

God, I don’t like where this is going at all.

He’s breathless, his chest heaving, as he tries to continue. “They—they had—he was—”

“Shh.” I stroke his hair, pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s okay. He’s safe now. You both are.”

“Don’t make me—I can’t do this,” Maison gasps, trying to pull away from us. Nolan slides off of me, giving me room as I turn fully toward Maison. He’s halfway sitting up. I grab his throat and push him back into the bed, keeping my hand there once he’s flat. He tilts his chin away, eyes slamming shut.

“I won’t make you tell me more if you’re not ready. This was enough. This was proof you guys are willing to let me in, even if it takes time. I needed that.” I give his throat a little squeeze before stroking my thumb beneath his jaw. “And now I understand better. It’s enough, okay? For now, it’s enough. You don’t have to tell me more if you’re not ready.”

“Never ready,” he whispers. “Never—can’t—I can’t tell you.”

“Shh. It’s okay.”

“I’m bad , Hunter.” His hands scrabble frantically at my shirt, clinging and pulling hard enough to make the fabric stretch uncomfortably against my back. “I’m a bad person. I’m bad.”

“Stop that.” I give his throat a squeeze. “You are not bad.”

“I am. I am . You’re going to find out. Oh god, you’re going to find out.” He starts to cry, the only indication the silent tears sliding down his cheeks. “You’ll leave. Once you know, you’ll leave.”

I move until I’m straddling his left thigh, adding pressure to his throat and keeping it there longer than I usually would. He doesn’t move for the first few seconds. Then another few. Then he realizes I’m not going to let up and his eyes snap to mine. They’re wide. Desperate. Terrified and hopeful.

“You know what?” I ask as his mouth drops open for air I’m not going to let him suck in. Not yet. “Maybe you are bad. Maybe you’re the villain of this whole story.” I lean down, hovering over him until I can hear the rasp of his attempted inhales. “I’m going to love you anyway. There’s not a doubt in my fucking mind that I won’t stop loving you.”

He whimpers, low and needy.

I loosen my hold and he sucks in a heaving breath, his whole body shuddering with the rush of oxygen. He blinks rapidly as more tears spill down his cheeks. It’s only now that I notice Nolan has his hand fisted in my shirt just above where Maison is holding. His other hand is on Maison’s waistband, clinging just as hard.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” I say again. “But the weight won’t lift until you do, sweetheart. This won’t go away until you do.”

He sniffles before slowly nodding.

I start to pull my hand away, ready to return to our earlier positions. He stops me with a hand clamped on my wrist. “Don’t leave.”

“Okay.” I shift, getting more comfortable. Then I look at Nolan and nod my head toward Maison. “Cuddle up the best you can.”

Nolan curls against Maison’s side, one leg overlapping Maison’s, his stomach pressing into my hip, his head tucked in the curve between Maison’s shoulder and throat. When I move my thumb, I can brush his cheek.

“He said I couldn’t save Carter. The man in charge, whoever the fuck he is. He—he wouldn’t take the risk. I tried. I tried so hard , Hunter.” His forehead wrinkles, eyes slitting. “I was going to defect. It would have been a life on the run—for both of us—but it was better than—Lord knows it would have been better than what he had to endure. The man in charge said he’d have Carter killed, if I didn’t stay in line.”

“So, you couldn’t save him. It wasn’t possible,” I say, more for him to hear it than for myself.

“I could have—”

“It sounds like you couldn’t have,” I argue. “So, what did you do instead? Because I know you. I know you didn’t do nothing. You’re a good man. What did you do?”

His bottom lip trembles. “I called Travis.”

I nod, a picture starting to form. An awful picture.

“Travis bought him.”

“Yes.” He laughs humorlessly. “He begged me not to make him. He’d made it through the operation relatively clean. A lot of claims that he was doing things behind closed doors. Acting like he was too good to participate in the…group activities. He’d made it without having to—having to—”

“He had only ever raped us orally,” Nolan whispers. “To that point.”

Jesus Christ.

I swallow bile, hoping my face isn’t showing anything other than supportive understanding.

“There was a chance—a chance he wouldn’t have to—that he’d be able to—to get away with just that. With Carter, I mean. Just oral.” Maison closes his eyes again, his voice starting to break. “There was a chance .”

I tighten around his throat again, hushing him as I do. There are tears starting to collect near my thumb where they’d slid down the sides of his face. Soon they’ll be soaking into Nolan’s hair.

I’m not thinking about Travis raping Nolan orally.

I’m not.

I’m not .

“There was a chance,” I agree with him. “You did the best you could. Travis was the best option.”

I keep my grip firm for a few more seconds before releasing the pressure. His breath is watery when he sucks it in. He’s trembling. It’s soft, barely noticeable, but I know it’s only going to get worse.

“He raped him. On stage, in—in front of everyone. At the auction. W-wasn’t given a choice.” His hands tighten on my shirt. “And it didn’t stop. After. Travis—he—it didn’t fucking stop.”

The trembling is violent now. It wracks his body beneath me. His chest heaves with almost-sobs. His hands scratch at my skin. I realize then that he’s ripped my shirt.

“Maison, I’m about to let go of your throat.” His eyes snap open, body going tense. “Shh. Just for a second. Do you trust me?”

“Trust you. Yeah. Yeah, I trust you.”

I slide my hand from his throat and gently grab each of his wrists. I guide them until they’re settled on his lower stomach, knuckles brushing against the front of my pants. I slip my left hand between them, slotting my fingers through the gaps of his until we’re palm to palm, then nudging the other hand until it’s clasped over the first two. His grip tightens, hard enough for his arm to shake. I realize nothing else is shaking, though. He’s calm again.

For now.

I replace my hand on his throat, his breath coming out as a relieved sigh once it’s settled.

Nolan moves one of his hands, placing it over ours. Maison hurries to move his fingers in a way that pulls half of Nolan’s hand into our little bundle.

“He’s a bad liar,” Maison whispers.

I frown. “Travis?”

“No. No, he’s—he’s damn good at lying. I couldn’t have picked anyone better to run our op.” He looks at me. “Carter. He—I didn’t think he could lie. Pretend. He’s a terrible liar. A bit of a hothead, when you got him going. And he’d have to watch others—” He stops, his eyes darting to Nolan before returning to me. “He’d have to stand by and watch them be hurt. That’s not my brother.”

“Did you tell Travis that?”

“Y-yeah.” He swallows hard, throat moving beneath my palm. His pulse is starting to pick back up beneath my fingertips. “Told him he couldn’t tell Carter the truth of who he was. Told him to— fuck .” He closes his eyes again. I debate making him look at me before letting it go. He can hide, for now. I’ll let him hide. “To treat him like—like a slave.”

Oh, Maison.

And Carter. And Travis. And Nolan.

Fuck.

“Carter—Carter couldn’t—he was breaking. He b-broke. He just fucking broke.” He shakes his head, trying to get up again, trying to buck me off. I squeeze his throat and he sobs, choked off and violent enough to wrack his whole body.

“It’s okay,” I promise, leaning over to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. I tighten my hold even further. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay, kitten. We’re here. We have you. Shh.”

He releases my hand to grab at me again, nails scraping and digging in.

“He wanted Trav to kill him. He—he begged.” He starts shaking again. Gasping. “He wanted to die. My baby brother wanted to die. He just wanted to fucking die .”

“But he didn’t,” Nolan says. “He didn’t . He’s safe now. He survived, Mais. He survived .”

“He’ll never forgive me. He—he hates me.” He looks at me. “He hates me. And I deserve it.”

“No, Maison. You don’t.”

“The party—they threw a party, at the end. I sat there and fucking—I fucking watched while they—and I just—just sat there, pretending to be bound when I wasn’t, just—just watching—just left him—right there, I was right there, and I fucking did nothing! ”

“Woah, wait—you were bound? At a party?”

“Pretending to be.”

“How? Why?”

Maison closes his eyes. “It was a way to get all the biggest names in one place. Capturing me, putting on a show, passing me around, making me watch them hurt Carter—it was their idea of a party. We needed them all in one place.”

Passing me around.

Making me watch them hurt Carter.

“They—wait, you were…” I don’t know how to ask it. I don’t know if he wants me to.

“It wasn’t—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “It was fine. I knew what I was getting into. No one even ended up really touching me at the party. It was the night before, when I was first captured. They—they had their fun. It was just one night.”

I catch the look on Nolan’s face. Maison is lying.

He calls himself out for it, though. Without looking at either of us. “It wasn’t fine at all…”

“Oh, Maison…”

“The scars, on my back, they’re from that night. They—” He pauses, his fingers finding my shirt and clutching the fabric like he’s terrified that I might leave. I hope one day I can get him to believe that no matter what, I’m not going anywhere. “There wasn’t a clock or—or windows. I don’t know how long it went. There were—there must have been dozens. Some came back for seconds. I thought—I mean, Jake was there, he had to make sure it wouldn’t go too far, but toward the end, I thought maybe I was going to die.” He shudders. “I wanted to die.”

I feel the first of what will likely be many hot tears fall down my cheek. I just hold Maison tighter, not wanting him to see it. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t.”

He shudders, gasping for breath.

“I’m glad too,” Nolan whispers. Then, with a hitched and forced laugh, he adds, “And not just because you saved me.”

“Yeah?” I ask, even though that doesn’t surprise me in the least. “Our boy saved you, darling?”

“He was at the party. We spiked the drinks to make taking them all down less messy. Some of the guys were helping victims whose owners made them drink some too. I found Nolan. He was—” He shakes his head, pressing himself tighter against me.

“I was strapped to a bench,” Nolan explains. Then he meets my eyes. “Blindfolded.”

Blindfolded .

The trigger for Maison saying red .

Oh, my poor boys.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, even though it feels like not nearly enough. “God, I’m so sorry. I’m so glad you’re both okay now. That you’re safe. That I got to meet you and fall in love with you and now I get to keep you.”

Maison lifts his head then, his expression twisting when he sees the tears on my face. I let him wipe them away with shaking fingers.

I realize as I watch him take care of me that this is the reason Maison carries so much weight on his shoulders, and the reason he won’t let it go even though it’s crushing him. He doesn’t think he deserves forgiveness. He doesn’t think that what happened to him was enough, compared to what he thinks he did to his brother, to others. He’d called himself a bad man and I knew he believed it, just as much as I knew he was wrong, but I didn’t realize it ran this deep. I didn’t realize he was poisoned so far down.

He hurts himself and denies himself and ruins things. He fights. Claws. Screams. Every second of the day, he sits under the weight. Every second of the day, he’s willing to let it be the end of him.

It’s penance for a sin he never committed.

I cup his face. His eyes widen, locking on to mine. His hands fall to my chest where his fingers curl into my shirt again. I stroke his cheek, taking in the sight of this beautiful, brave martyr of a man. “You must be so tired.”

He sucks in a sharp breath.

And then he starts to sob.

I pull him back against me, letting him scratch at my back out of desperation to cling to me. Nolan wraps himself around us, his head on my shoulder, his hand stroking Maison’s back.

“It’s time to rest now, Maison. Your time carrying the weight of the world is over. Do you understand?” I guide him back, ignoring his wounded sounds and shaking hands, and grab his chin. I force him to look at me through his tears. “I’m taking it, alright? Hand it over. Give it all to me. You’ve done enough, sweetheart. You get to stop now. You get to stop.”

I expect him to fight.

I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong when he collapses back in my arms and breathes, “ Thank you. ”