CHAPTER 0023- After

I didn’t sleep in the guest room that night.

After he left me on the couch, I stayed there until my legs stopped shaking. Then I went upstairs, showered until the water ran cold, and sat on the edge of the bed in a towel, staring at nothing. The anger was still there, but it had changed shape. It didn’t feel clean anymore. It felt like something we’d both stepped in and couldn’t wipe off.

When I finally came downstairs the next morning, Chloe was already gone. Note on the counter said she had an early shift and then drinks after. Elias was in the kitchen, dressed for work, pouring coffee like it was any other day.

He looked at me over the rim of his mug.

“You eat yet?”

“No.”

He nodded toward the fridge. “There’s eggs. Or I can make something.”

The normalcy of it made my skin itch. “I don’t want eggs.”

“Then what do you want?”

I leaned against the opposite counter and crossed my arms. “I want to know if you’re going to keep fucking my mother.”

He set the mug down carefully. “No.”

“Why not? You didn’t seem to have a problem with it two days ago.”

“Because it hurt you.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge under it. “And because I’m not interested in repeating something that makes you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re still deciding whether to stay or burn the house down on your way out.”

I laughed once, short and humorless. “You don’t get to act like the reasonable one. Not after everything.”

“I’m not acting reasonable.” He walked around the island until he was in front of me. Close, but not touching. “I’m telling you where I stand. Your mother was a mistake. The plumber was a message. We’ve both made our points. Now we either stop, or we keep going with the understanding that this—” he gestured between us “—doesn’t include other people anymore.”

“You don’t get to set the rules after what you did.”

“Yes I do.” His eyes held mine. “Because you could have left last night. You could have left this morning. You’re still here. That means something.”

I hated that he was right. I hated how much of me already knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

He reached out and brushed his thumb along the edge of my jaw. I didn’t pull away.

“I’m late for a meeting,” he said. “I’ll be back around six. Chloe won’t be home until late. When I get back, I want you in my bed. Not the guest room. Mine.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then I’ll come find you and carry you there myself.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth, soft enough that it felt more dangerous than if he’d been rough. “Don’t test me on this one, Riley. Not today.”

He left.

I stood in the kitchen for a long time after the front door closed, heart beating too fast, the ghost of his mouth still on my skin.

The day dragged.

I tried to read. Tried to watch something. Tried to nap. Every hour that passed made the house feel smaller. By the time five-thirty came around, I was restless in a way that had nothing to do with anger anymore.

At ten to six I went upstairs, stripped, and got into his bed naked.

It felt like surrender. It also felt like the only honest thing left.

I heard his car a little after six. Keys. Footsteps. The soft sound of him moving through the house. Then the bedroom door opened.

He stood there looking at me for a long second, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable. Then he shut the door, locked it, and started undoing his shirt.

“You actually listened,” he said.

“Don’t make it a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.” He dropped the shirt, then his pants, and climbed onto the bed. “You in my bed after everything means you chose this. Chose me. Even when you’re still pissed.”

He kissed me slow this time. Deeper. Like he had all night and intended to use it. His hands mapped my body like he was reminding himself of every place he’d already claimed. When he pushed my thighs apart and dragged his mouth down my stomach, I didn’t stop him.

He ate me like he had something to prove — steady, focused, two fingers working inside me while his tongue circled my clit. I came with my hands in his hair and his name in my mouth, the anger still there but quieter, buried under the heat.

When he finally pushed inside me it was slow. Deep. No punishing rhythm this time. Just the thick slide of him filling me until there was no space left for anything else. He held my gaze the whole time, one hand braced by my head, the other gripping my thigh.

“Still mad?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He thrust deeper. “Stay mad. Just stay.”

He fucked me like that for a long time — unhurried, intense, every stroke deliberate. When I came again he followed, burying himself to the hilt and letting go with a low sound against my neck. We stayed locked together after, breathing hard, his weight a solid, grounding thing on top of me.

Eventually he rolled to the side and pulled me with him. My head ended up on his chest. His fingers traced slow lines up and down my spine.

“This doesn’t erase anything,” I said into the quiet.

“I know.”

“I’m still going to be angry about her.”

“I know that too.”

His hand stilled on my back.

“But you’re in my bed,” he said. “And you’re not leaving. So we’ll deal with the rest as it comes.”

I didn’t answer.

Outside, the sky was starting to go dark. Somewhere down the street a dog barked. The house was quiet except for the sound of his heartbeat under my ear.

I closed my eyes and let myself stay there, angry and claimed and still somehow exactly where I wanted to be.