Unleashed (The Elliott Brothers #2)

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

“ J esus Christ, Morgan, you’re drunk,” Slade’s voice cut through the haze as I slowly came to. I blinked groggily, realizing I was sprawled on my beige, plush area rug in the living room. The bottle of Svedka lay a few inches from my hand, a silent testament to my binge. My head pounded mercilessly, the result of too much vodka and too much heartache.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper as Slade scooped me up in his strong arms.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice filled with genuine regret. “I didn’t realize how much our spat affected you.”

If only he knew the depth of my despair had little to do with him. I nestled into his embrace, feeling the comforting warmth of his body against mine. A couple of months ago, we had exchanged keys, and our building concierges had long since become accustomed to seeing us coming and going from each other’s apartments without question.

“You can put me down,” I protested, though my words were slurred. “I’m fine.”

Slade gently lowered me onto my shaky legs near the edge of my bed, his hands steadying me as I swayed. “How much of that stuff did you drink?”

“I dunno,” I replied, trying to focus but failing miserably.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“It’s still light out,” I slurred, my gaze drifting toward the sliver of sunlight seeping through the curtains.

“But you’re in no condition to be up and about,” he said firmly, guiding me toward the bed.

“Will you stay with me?” I asked, the vulnerability in my voice unmistakable. I craved his comfort, even though he had no idea what lay ahead for us.

“Of course I’ll stay,” Slade said, his tone softening. “We can go to work tomorrow if you’re up to it.”

“Why wouldn’t I go to work?” I wondered aloud, my mind struggling to stay focused.

“You should see how you feel tomorrow,” Slade said, his voice laced with concern. “I’m sure you’ll have a killer hangover based on how you smell.”

“How I smell?” I questioned, confused.

“Like you marinated in vodka,” he said with a hint of a smile.

Slade helped me undress, his touch surprisingly gentle. He slid me under the sheets, and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out, slipping into a troubled sleep where two men—one with a familiar face and the other with a comforting presence—fought for my heart.

When I woke again, the room was shrouded in darkness. Slade lay beside me, his even breathing a contrast to the chaotic thudding in my head. The pain was relentless, like a hundred drums beating in unison. My stomach churned, and I fought the rising nausea.

I managed to turn over to glance at the clock. It read 1:43 AM. My mind immediately flickered to Michael. I hadn’t been lying when I said I still loved him. If he hadn’t vanished, maybe things would have turned out differently.

My thoughts churned as I tried to find some semblance of sleep, but when Slade’s hand gently stroked my bare back, I groaned in discomfort.

“Not feeling so great?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Like I was run over by a truck,” I mumbled, clutching my head.

“I think staying home is in order for you,” he suggested, his hand still soothingly caressing my back.

“But I have to finish the plans I was working on,” I protested weakly.

“They’re not due until the end of the week,” he reminded me.

“And we have a bunch of upcoming projects. I can’t afford to be out,” I argued, attempting to sit up. The movement intensified my headache, and I collapsed back onto the mattress with a groan.

“You’re staying home today,” Slade insisted. “I can work a half day or go in late.”

I laughed, though it hurt so much that I pressed my hands to the sides of my head. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been drunk before.”

“Not like this,” Slade said, his tone gentle but firm. “Let me take care of you today. You need it.”

I looked at him, the warmth in his eyes a stark contrast to the cold ache in my heart. For now, I surrendered to his care, knowing I couldn’t face the world—or my troubles—without some help.

“I’ve never seen you this drunk,” Slade said softly, his voice filled with regret. “I’m sorry. I know you’re stressed. I should’ve been more considerate.”

“It was stupid,” I mumbled, trying to wave off the apology. “I was overreacting.”

“Take the day off,” he suggested gently. “We can talk tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, my voice barely audible.

“Stop apologizing,” Slade said firmly but kindly. He leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to my forehead before slipping out of bed to take a shower.

I nestled back under the covers, caught between sleep and wakefulness. The gentle sound of running water from the bathroom was soothing, and I drifted in and out of a restless slumber. When Slade returned, I felt his warm lips brush against my cheek, accompanied by the faint scent of his cologne and the scratch of his stubble.

“Love you,” he whispered, his voice a comforting murmur in the dim light.

“I love you, too,” I mumbled, barely able to keep my eyes open.

I fell back into a deep sleep and didn’t stir until the sun was high in the sky. Its rays streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the wooden floor of my bedroom. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, my hand trembling slightly.

Two texts from Slade awaited me, but nothing from Michael. A pang of disappointment struck me. I wasn’t even sure if he remembered my number—or if he ever would. It didn’t matter, though. Slade was right; I was with someone else. Yet, a nagging thought lingered in the back of my mind: Did Slade win by default, or was it something more?

“How are you feeling?” Slade’s voice was warm and concerned over the phone.

“Better,” I replied, my voice still a little groggy. “My head doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Do you want me to come over after work?” he asked, a hopeful tone in his voice.

“Do you mind if you don’t?” I hesitated, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling me down. “I’m really tired.”

“I guess,” Slade said, his disappointment evident. “I really wanted to see you.”

“Please, Slade?” I pleaded softly.

I wasn’t in the mood to talk or reveal why I indulged so heavily in alcohol. Whatever I told him, it would be a lie. Our argument wasn’t the reason, Michael was.

He chuckled. “Okay, I’ll call you when I get home from work.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely grateful.

After we hung up, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, dressed only in my panties. A long, steamy shower worked wonders, and I emerged feeling somewhat revived. I was padding around my apartment in a short pink robe when there was a knock at the door. Slade was on his lunch break, so I didn’t bother checking the peephole.

“Did you forget your key again?” I called out, pulling open the door with a casual flick. But the sight of Michael standing there, freshly shaven with his hair neatly cut, stopped me in my tracks. I suddenly felt acutely aware of my state—naked underneath the thin satin of my robe.

“If I had a key, I wouldn’t be knocking,” Michael said, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“M… Michael,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over me before he waited for me to close the door. I tightened the sash of my robe, feeling exposed under his intense scrutiny.

“Miss Kincaid,” he said, his tone teasing, “making it tighter won’t change the fact that you’re naked underneath. Am I right?”

My cheeks flushed crimson. “Obviously. I don’t usually wear a robe over my clothes.”

He sighed, the sound heavy with regret. “I should go.”

“Why?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “You’re here and clearly have something to say.”

“Why?” Michael echoed, his voice low and tortured. “Because for the past two months, all I’ve thought about is making love to you.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. The room seemed to spin, and I sank onto the couch, struggling to catch my breath.

“You can’t just show up and say things like that,” I stammered. “I’m engaged.”

“I know,” Michael said, anguish etched in his features. “And it tears me apart.”

“You shouldn’t have run away,” I said, my voice trembling.

“I didn’t run. I needed to clear my head. I was hoping to gain some clarity before coming back. But now, it feels like he won you by default.”

A wave of sickness washed over me again, this time not from my hangover but from the realization that Michael’s words struck a painful truth. Did I love him more than Slade?

“I love him,” I said firmly, though my voice wavered. “He didn’t win by default.”

“Do you mean,” Michael’s voice was soft, almost pleading, “if I had stayed, you would have chosen me?”

“I don’t know what I would’ve done,” I admitted, “and now it’s too late.”

He sat down next to me, the familiar scent of his cologne filling my senses. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his piercing blue eyes. Michael reached out and gently stroked my cheek.

“I would’ve fought for you,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t have made it easy for Abbott to win your heart.”

My initial urge was to reach for another bottle of alcohol, but I was determined not to fall back into that trap.

“I’m getting married in September,” I said, my voice heavy with resignation.

“Then it’s not too late,” Michael whispered, his fingers continuing their tender caress.

I knew I was treading dangerous territory. My body reacted to him in ways it shouldn’t. The heat from his hand made my core throb with need, and my nipples strained against the fabric of my robe.

The way Michael had always been able to ignite desire in me with just his voice was now evident, as he lowered his hand to my nipple, sending jolts of pleasure through me.

“Your body remembers me,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “You’re aroused.”

I pushed his hand away, my clit pulsing with longing. Despite the intense desire flooding through me, I knew I couldn’t betray Slade. He was kind and deserving of better.

“I’m chilly,” I said, trying to deflect.

“Bullshit,” Michael said, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “You want me. If I touch between your legs, I bet you’re soaked with need.”

“You’re wrong, Michael,” I said, though my voice was strained. “The only one I desire is Slade. We had our time, and I’m not proud of what happened. You both deserved better.”

“And he got the perfect Morgan?” Michael’s voice was laced with bitterness. “Tell me, when he makes love to you, do you see my face?”

I almost moaned, but managed to stifle it. The truth was, during our time together, Michael’s face had often haunted my thoughts. Slade was gentle, but he didn’t provoke the same intensity that Michael had.

“I see his face,” I said, forcing myself to sound resolute. “You’re just a memory now.”

“I’m not so sure that’s true,” Michael said softly, his eyes locked on mine. “I know you, Morgan. I know your secrets. I know the sounds you make when you’re about to come and the look of desire you have, like now.”

“I’m not interested. Go home,” I said, my voice trembling with resolve.

Michael stood up, his expression unreadable. “I just wanted to let you know that they’re running a story about my return on the news tonight. You might want to watch.”

“So?” I said, my tone dismissive.

“Watch and you’ll see,” he said cryptically.

He turned and walked toward the door. I followed him, but before he opened it, he spun around and pressed his lips to mine. A surge of heat exploded through me, and I felt my body react instinctively. His kiss was fierce, and I moved against him, feeling the familiar arousal that only he could ignite.

As his hand slipped over my robe, I couldn’t help but respond, arching toward him, desperate for his touch. But then it was over. He pulled away, leaving me gasping for breath. I watched him walk to the elevator.

Once the elevator doors closed behind him, I closed the apartment door and collapsed onto the couch, my mind reeling. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Michael’s return had rekindled feelings I thought were buried. As I sat there, torn between the love I felt for Slade and the intense, unresolved passion with Michael, my heart ached with the weight of the decision

I had yet to make.