Chapter Eighty-Three: Quiet Cracks
738 Words
-----Helen's POV-----
She didn’t remember walking into the house.
Not really.
She remembered the way the girls had stirred in the back of the van when she gently gathered them. She remembered how warm they felt, how Emma nuzzled her neck, and how Lily’s fingers clung to the fabric of her sleeve like it was the last safe thing in the world.
But the walk up the path? Unlocking the door? The quiet creak of the hinges as she stepped into the dim-lit house?
That part was a blur.
The house was clean.
Too clean.
Sterile.
No toys scattered across the floor. No dishes in the sink. No hints of the violence that had happened here.
It didn’t make her feel better.
It made her feel watched.
She carried Emma to her old room and tucked her in, brushing a few strands of dark hair from her flushed cheek. The bed was remade. Clean. Soft.
Too soft.
New sheets.
She turned and saw Lily had already crawled into her own bed, curled under a plush blanket that hadn’t been there before.
Helen’s chest tightened.
She backed out of the room slowly, closing the door with a quiet click.
When she stepped into the hallway, she caught sight of the small duffel bag Morgan had pressed into her hands at the van.
Just a few clothes, Morgan had said. Toothbrush. Shampoo. Diapers. A few snacks for the girls.
And a shirt.
Not hers.
Axton’s.
She pulled it from the bag like it might bite her.
It was soft. Worn. Black.
And it still smelled like him.
Like spice and cedarwood.
Like control.
Like danger.
She held it to her face and breathed.
Then cursed herself.
And wore it anyway.
She didn’t sleep.
But eventually, exhaustion dragged her under.
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It started with the creak of a floorboard.
She turned in her bed—still in Axton’s shirt—and found him standing in the doorway.
Shirtless. Breathless. Eyes dark.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
“I had to see you,” he said. “Had to feel you.”
His voice was low. Rough silk. It slipped down her spine and made her thighs clench.
He crossed the room in two steps, one hand bracing the wall above her head, the other tracing a line from her throat to the dip between her breasts.
“You wore my shirt,” he said, almost reverently.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“You wanted to.”
He kissed her then—slow, then deep. Commanding.
She gasped against his mouth, and he drank it in like oxygen.
His hand found her thigh, sliding the shirt higher until he discovered she wore nothing underneath.
“f**k,” he groaned. “You’re so ready for me, baby.”
He pushed her back, lips never leaving hers, and settled between her legs. His fingers teased—just the tip brushing her slit. Wet. Needy.
She arched. Moaned.
“I’ve barely touched you and you’re already dripping,” he growled. “You miss me that bad?”
She nodded, breathless.
“Say it.”
“I miss you,” she gasped. “I need you.”
He pushed in—slow and thick, dragging a broken cry from her lips.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t falter.
He f****d her like he owned her. Like he was staking a claim deeper than any wound. His name a litany on her tongue. Her nails clawing his back. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist.
Over and over, harder, deeper, until her body shattered beneath him—twice, three times, and then again when he whispered her name like a prayer.
He came with a growl and a kiss that made her forget everything else.
Everything but him.
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She woke up gasping.
Sweaty. Shaking.
Empty.
The shirt clung to her skin, her thighs slick and aching.
She pressed her hand between her legs and cursed.
God, what was wrong with her?
She was supposed to be furious. Broken. Betrayed.
Not soaking for the man who lied to her.
The man who stalked her.
The man she couldn’t stop dreaming about.
She laid back, covered her face, and groaned into the pillow.
“Get it together, Helen,” she muttered.
But she didn’t move.
Didn’t change.
Didn’t take off the shirt.
Because she didn’t want to stop wanting him.
Even if she knew she should.
- Writer
