Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Nolan

I’m halfway through making breakfast when Bryce calls me. I put my phone between my shoulder and ear as I stir the French toast batter, keeping my voice low since the men I love are pulling a lazy Sunday morning sleep-in upstairs. “Hello?”

“We can’t have your party today.” I frown. Party? What party? “Carter is freaking out about final exams and since your man is a professor I figure he’s probably busy too. So, we’re having it Friday.”

I’m just about to ask what the fuck he’s talking about when I remember the plans I got roped into when we were at the house yesterday. God, that feels like weeks ago. So much has changed between the three of us in this house. We feel solid. Steady. Safe.

If only Maison would quit… But at least it’s on his goal list.

Bryce groans in my ear when I’ve been silent for too long. “Please tell me Friday works for you. I swear, for a bunch of anti-social neurotics, our friend group has way too many things on their schedules.”

I roll my eyes. “Friday is fine. I’ll check with Hunter, but it’s okay if he can’t come.”

Considering I haven’t even applied to classes yet, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Bryce does not agree. “Oh, no. Nope. He has to come. I have so many more questions for him!”

“ Bryce .”

“Sorry, not sorry. I’m hanging up now. See you Friday. Have fun with your two boyfriends fucking like rabbits all week. Love you!”

I roll my eyes, but he’s already off the phone.

I guess I’ll be partying on Friday.

Until then, I’ve got French toast to make, two men to fuck like rabbits, and—if I’m lucky—maybe some cockwarming to do while my sexy professor dom boyfriend does whatever it is he needs to do for final exams.

By Thursday, we’ve settled into a new sort of routine.

In the mornings, whoever wakes up first starts the coffee—there was a small issue of how many scoops is the proper amount, in which Maison lost because two out of the three men in this relationship don’t believe you need to be vibrating out of your skin from caffeine, but that was resolved with mild pouting and a blowjob. If no one wakes up before the alarm, then I get the coffee started before working on breakfast. At the same time, Hunter changes Maison’s bandage. That always ends with a kiss to the tip of Maison’s nose and a, “Good boy,” that never fails to make Maison blush and squirm and mumble, “I didn’t even do anything,” that Hunter always ignores.

Then we eat breakfast, Maison and Hunter at the table, me kneeling on my cushion. I have a mug of coffee down there if I’m not cockwarming, but Hunter still handfeeds me. Once, I sat there with my cookbook, my temple resting on the outside of Hunter’s thigh as I flipped lazily through the pictures, him running fingers through my hair. I had already eaten that morning, waking up a little shaky—it didn’t end up being a drop, but Hunter was careful and made me eat a protein bar and some fruit just in case. If I do cockwarm, my plate of food stays in the microwave until Hunter is done. Then he pushes back his chair so he can enjoy the sight of me eating from his hands.

Hunter has to go to work then. He says it won’t be like this during regular weeks, it’s just because of exams that he has to go in every day. Next semester he has classes Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays—with office hours Tuesdays and Thursdays. We don’t like having him gone, but we sure love to watch him leave. My god, I had seen him dressed up before, but it’s different watching it happen. Watching him pull his pants over his legs and button his shirt and adjust his cuffs. Him putting on a belt is fucking obscene. One day he wore a fucking vest and tie. I nearly swooned. Maison gulped loud enough for everyone to hear. Hunter had promised he’d use it for something fun when he got home from work—a promise he kept, binding my wrists to the headboard and making me take a load from each of them before letting me rut pathetically against Hunter’s thigh to find my own relief.

While Hunter is gone to work, Maison and I get up to trouble. Not sexy trouble—Hunter doesn’t let us fuck while he’s gone, owning both of our orgasms now that Maison has given into his more submissive side. No, our trouble is in the form of decorating the hell out of Hunter’s house. Maison aways grumbles about too many decorations even though he’s always adding more to the cart when we go shopping. He admits it’s all worth it when we get to see Hunter’s face after he discovers that we did indeed put fake candy canes above his toilet. It was his fault, Maison pointed out. He had been warned.

Hunter comes home from work at different times depending on the day, but always before dinner. Sometimes dinner is finished, sometimes it’s in the process of being made, or it’s cooking in the oven. If it’s the first instance, we all eat together at the table, talking about our days or the possibilities of our future or telling stories about friends and family. If it’s the second, he comes up behind me and presses kisses to my neck, whispering that he missed me, then goes and finds Maison where he’s almost always on the couch either watching something on the TV or working on his therapy journal that Dr. Singh assigned him. If it’s cooking in the oven, he greets Maison first, asks where his head is at for play, then either drags me to the bedroom to fuck my face, or does it right in front of Maison before handing me off to him to take care of the erection he always has after watching.

At seven, whether he likes it or not, Maison goes upstairs and does his phone call with Dr. Singh. Hunter and I stay downstairs, watching our history documentary that I find surprisingly fascinating and Maison finds unbelievably boring. Sometimes Maison comes down soon after. Sometimes he’s gone so long we go looking for him. On good nights, he plops down on the couch with us and complains about the documentary before stealing the remote and turning another superhero movie on before we get tired enough to head upstairs and either pass out or get each other off before passing out. On bad nights, he wants Hunter to hold him down, to wrap a hand around his throat, to make him beg until he sobs his way through an orgasm. On the really bad nights, he doesn’t want to be touched, just wants to lie between us on the bed, his hand fisted around his dog tags like they’re the only thing keeping him from floating away.

Hunter warns us the weekend will be rather boring. He doesn’t like to make his students wait long for their grades, remembering the anxiety he felt himself as a student. That means Saturday and Sunday will be dedicated to grading final exams and final essays. I had felt slightly pouty—not that I would ever act that way. Then he’d mentioned I could cockwarm him while he grades, maybe even cockwarm both of them at once while he uses my back as a table, and I’d nearly come in my pants. He also said if he finishes in time on Sunday, we can go pick out a real Christmas tree. Maison had laughed when I’d bounced up and down in excitement. He wasn’t laughing anymore when Hunter made him sit there with a cock ring on while I bounced on his cock. He’d been real nice after that.

To say the week has been an unimaginable perfection would be an understatement, even with the lows Maison experienced and the doubts that occasionally popped into my head when things felt too good to be true.

I don’t want to leave the happy bubble, but I don’t doubt for a second Bryce would come to Hunter’s and drag our asses to the party if we don’t show up ourselves. So, partying it is.

The guys are excited to see me, though Bryce’s dramatic fall to his knees with his hands in the air and a yell of, “Praise the Lord, you’re alive!” is a little much. I flick him in the forehead and tell him to get up because he looks ridiculous. He gives Hunter a look and says, “Get your sub under control, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Hunter says. Then, with a smirk, “And he’s perfectly under control, for me.”

Bryce whistles low, shaking his head. He eyes Hunter up and down. Then he offers him a drink. Hunter accepts. They agree the wine Bryce picks is an excellent one. I realize with a spike of dread that letting the two of them bond was a very big mistake. When I catch Maison’s horrified look, I know he’s realized the same.

Matt’s tablet is American today. He drags me to the living room, leaving Maison and Hunter behind, and demands to know everything that’s happened since the last time we talked. He has pre-made words and phrases now, so he doesn’t have to type quite as often. He uses, “Oh my god!”, “Wait, what?”, and “Elaborate,” quite a lot. He also does a lot of shaking his head and signing, idiot .

I almost have him fully caught up when Travis, Jake, Casey, and Carter show up. I try not to tense, already scanning the house for Maison. It’s like the air is sucked out of the room whenever Carter shows up. I hate that for the both of them, but the selfish part of me that’s in love with Maison hates Carter a little for it too. It feels like him forgiving Maison is long past overdue. Every time they seem to get close, Carter blows everything up.

Matt’s tablet says, “Breathe.”

I try.

It gets a whole lot easier when I start walking out of the living room and get a glimpse of Maison sitting on a stool in the kitchen, Hunter’s hand on his shoulder. I reach them first, but the new arrivals are only seconds after us. Hunter doesn’t move his hand when they walk in. Maison doesn’t move away. Travis’s gaze goes directly to the place they’re touching, but Carter’s eyes are on me.

Carter wraps me up in a hug that I return easily enough. I love him too, after all. I just sort of want to hit him over the head a few times…lovingly.

He hands me a gift, which prompts Casey to hand me one too. I blush furiously. I want to tell them that Bryce blew this whole thing way out of proportion. It’s not culinary school, it’s a class or two. I’m not accepted, I haven’t even applied yet. I haven’t even fully decided I’m going yet.

“Open them!” Carter says impatiently.

I decide to accept the gifts. Who doesn’t love gifts, right? Besides, I cook for all these assholes all the damn time. A little thanks is welcome.

Especially when that thanks is in the form of a gorgeous knife set—which has Bryce exclaiming a little terrifyingly, “Oh, knives!”—and a handcrafted charcuterie board. I thank them both, promising to have a movie night soon with the charcuterie board, then promising not to let Bryce anywhere near the knives. Bryce gasps, offended.

“Did you even get him a gift?” Carter says with a roll of his eyes.

“Um, I threw him this party?” Bryce says, putting his hands up to gesture around the room. Then, “And then there’s me. I’m a motherfucking gift.”

There’s no arguing with that. Especially with knives nearby.

It’s time to start cooking anyway.

It’s a lot, being in the house again after so much time in our happy bubble. I forgot just how noisy we all can be. Add in the cats and Matt’s tablet and a mini food-fight and I’m pretty wiped out by the time dessert is over.

The final straw is when Keats shows up, though. He breezes in with a too-loud greeting and a cut on his cheek that wasn’t there before and a present for me wrapped in SpongeBob wrapping paper. The thing is, I had forgotten all about SpongeBob. It used to be my favorite. Not just as a child, either. I was adamant that SpongeBob was the pinnacle of television. I spent a whole summer once trying to figure out what the secret formula was for the krabby patties.

The reminder is out of nowhere. It feels like I had been missing an arm and hadn’t even noticed until someone said, “Hey, dude, where the fuck is your arm?” It’s disillusioning. Startling. It makes it hard to breathe.

My hands are shaking as I do the polite thing and open the present. As I do, Maison asks Keats, “What happened to your face?”

Keats huffs. “A disagreement.”

“Something big?” Travis asks.

“I’ve got this one handled. Don’t worry, I won’t forget you boys for next time.”

I stare at the present—an immersion blender—as next time, next time, next time rings in my ears. Hunter puts a hand on the small of my back and quietly says, “Nolan?”

I swallow. I look up at Keats and smile. I say, “Thank you. I love it.”

I don’t really remember what happens in the few minutes after that. It feels like I’m under water. I think about how I’m under water like SpongeBob and have to stop myself from breaking down in hysterical laughter. Hunter leads me out of the room while I hear Maison say something about it being a long week. He drags me onto the alcove in the hall and presses our foreheads together.

“Breathe, darling. We’re going to leave, okay? We’re going back to our bubble. But you’ve gotta breathe for me first. Breathe .”

By the time Maison finds us, I’m breathing evenly, the world back to normal. I’m tired. Weary. I’m so fucking ready to go home.

“We don’t have to say goodbye,” Maison tells me when I give the door a longing look. “They all understand. I’ve got your presents already packed up.”

Hunter smiles, putting a hand on Maison’s cheek. “You take such good care of him, kitten.”

Maison blushes furiously, which makes things better. I hope he never figures out how to stop doing that so easily. Or if he does, I hope Hunter is good at figuring out new and exciting ways to earn the reaction.

The three of us are getting our coats on when someone says, “Hey, Nolan?”

I somehow manage not to startle, turning slowly to face the man whose voice I still know so well. Travis is standing a few feet away, shoulders low, hands stuffed in his pockets. He looks as unassuming as they come, a man who has tucked his dominance away for a moment.

I feel Hunter stiffen beside me. I remember for the first time that before tonight, Hunter hadn’t seen Travis since finding out the truth. Undercover or not, Travis was the monster in my life for years. I don’t know why I never considered what that’d do to them.

“I have something for you.” He clears his throat, his eyes finding Maison standing beside me. “For both of you.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything. None of you did.”

“It’s not really a gift. Or maybe it is, but it’s—” He shakes his head, his eyebrows pulling in. “It’s yours. Always was. Both of yours.”

I don’t understand, but Maison must. His breath catches in his throat.

Travis nods like maybe he expected that. He reaches over to the coat rack. A leather messenger bag is hanging from it. He flips it open without removing it from the hook it’s on. Then he pulls out a white box with a black ribbon tied around it. He hesitates, halfway to handing it to me. Our eyes lock.

“I’m sorry for being your monster,” he says, his voice thick. “I’m glad you found your hero.” His eyes go to Hunter beside me, his lips quirking just a touch. “Heroes.”

“I think sometimes monsters can be heroes too,” I tell him as tears well up in my eyes.

His eyes aren’t doing much better. He blinks a few times, then sort of thrusts the gift at me. I take it with trembling hands. His laugh is thick before he warns, “Don’t go dropping it.”

I don’t realize the joke until I open the box.

It’s a plate. Twelve white pieces, some large, others merely slivers. They’re all joined together with gold.

“Is that…?” Maison whispers.

“I was planning to just wait until you asked for them back,” Travis says in return. “Then Jake told me about that thing you and Nolan say. The kintsugi. Maybe it was presumptuous, but I thought maybe that’s what you had planned for them, eventually. I guess I thought I’d help you. The least I can do, right?”

“What’s it from?” Hunter asks quietly.

I run my finger along one of the lines of gold. “The first time Maison and I met was at that party. The second was when I broke this plate. It was the first day in the safehouse. I—I felt broken. He could see that. Could see it wasn’t really the plate I was so upset about. He told me about the kintsugi, like we told you. The art with the gold."

“Something beautiful,” Maison whispers. "Because it's broken."

“I—” I shake my head, tucking the plate back in its padded box and putting the lid on. I don’t want to drop it. Not ever. I hold the box to my chest as my first tear slips free. “Thank you. Travis, this—really, thank you.”

He wipes a hand down his face before pointing a finger at Hunter. “You take care of them, you hear me?”

I feel Hunter’s hand on my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see he has one on Maison’s too. “I plan to.”

Travis smiles before disappearing around the corner, looking for Carter.

Maison takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Then he says, “I think now would be a good time to tell you guys I’m going to quit.”