Page 41 of Bound By Obsession

“Why are you all doing this for me?” I lean back, stroking a strand of Huxley’s hair away from his stubbled chin. His lips twitch into a small, lopsided smile and his hands rest gently on my arms.

“There isn’t much we could do about Nixon’s…intrusion yesterday, and salvaging the festive season seemed like a lost cause. We agreed the least we could do was make you feel safe and wanted. This is just a fraction of what you deserve.”

His words hit me hard, breaking through the last of my defenses. I’ve spent all night trying to stay strong, to keep it all together. What I so easily forgot is that I have four men who willgladly carry my burdens on my behalf, shouldering the weight of the world so I don’t have to. I bite my lip, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. One escapes, slipping down my cheek. Huxley catches it with his thumb, wiping it away gently.

“No crying on Christmas. That can be your present to me.”

“I can’t make any promises,” I manage to smile. We stand together, content to stare at one another for a while. Then Huxley tucks my arm into his and escorts me downstairs, the anticipation building with every step. Surprisingly, the house is entirely still. No signs of life cross our path until we reach the kitchen and I can finally hear the faint sound of laughter nearby. Huxley leads me through the back door, onto the porch that overlooks the beach.

The air smells of salt, smoke and burning wood, the familiar breeze is cool against my skin. A large fire crackles and pops a few hundred feet away, its flames dancing wildly against a pastel-streaked sky. The waves crash softly in the distance as an orange glow illuminates the beach, casting long shadows across the sand, and there, gathered around the fire, are the others.

Axel is sitting cross-legged on a blanket, a beer in hand, his striking hazel eyes softened in the light. Dax is poking at the fire with a long stick, the muscles in his arms flexing as he adds another log to the flames. Garrett, of course, is stretched out on his back in the sand, one arm thrown behind his head, his smile lazy and content as he watches the flames flicker against the darkening sky.

Blankets are spread out across the sand, bottles of wine and beer scattered around. Off to one side, a circular barbeque is gently warming, smoke trailing from the metal rack.

“Here she is,” Garrett pushes up onto his elbows. All heads turn my way. “Merry Christmas Peach! We hope you like it.”

Axel lifts his beer in a toast as Huxley and I approach the fire. I stare at them, at this moment they’ve created for me, my heartswelling with gratitude and something deeper—something that feels a lot like belonging.

“Come sit with us,” Huxley says, lowering down and patting the blanket next to him. I hesitate for a moment, the warmth of the fire licking at my skin as I take in the scene. It’s almost too much; the thoughtfulness, the way they’ve pulled this together last minute to give me some semblance of normality after everything that happened yesterday. But then Huxley squeezes my hand, a silent reassurance that it’s okay to accept this, to take the good while we can.

So I do. I sit between Axel and Hux, leaning back into the warmth of their bodies and the fire, and for the first time in days, I feel like maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay. Until the back door slams open.

“Riot! I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.” Garrett sits up fully now, digging a beer bottle out of the sand and offering it up to the approaching figure. Framed by the light he’s left on in the kitchen, his dark silhouette seems to suck all of the air out of my lungs. I avoid looking at him, preferring the dancing flames of the fire as a focal point.

Wyatt strides toward the fire, brushing off Garrett’s offered beer with a dismissive wave. Catching sight of the movement, my eyes dart to the side and I immediately regret it. Ignoring the handful of packaged food he’s carrying, Wyatt is dressed in casual shorts with large pockets and a thin button down which has been left open to reveal the dragon tattoo spanning his muscled torso. His dark hair is tousled from the wind and those eyes, a shade of startling green, lock onto mine. I instinctively tense, my stomach knotting. It’s been so long, I don’t know how to act around him or on what terms we left things.

“Alright, let’s get this thing over with,” he says, his voice low but carrying through the cool air. His gaze flicks over the fire, theblankets, the guys, before settling back on me. There’s always an edge in his words, always something sharp beneath the surface.

I open my mouth to shoot something back, to meet his hostility with my own, but then he does something unexpected. Wyatt shoves his free hand into his pocket, his expression softening just slightly. Not much, but enough that it throws me off.

“I’m in charge of dinner. Are burgers okay?” he mutters, almost as if the question is painful.

I’m thankful that I’m sitting or I might have just collapsed. Blinking, utterly caught off guard, my mind trips over itself, playing a delayed game of catch up. Wyatt is cooking for me? The same man who’s made it his life’s mission to remind me how much he resents my existence? I glance around the fire, but no one else seems as stunned as I am. Axel takes a sip of his beer, Dax keeps poking at the fire, and Garrett’s already gone back to lounging in the sand.

I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge whether this is some kind of joke or setup. “You’re in charge of dinner?” I repeat, incredulous. “And no one is concerned you’re going to poison me?”

Huxley makes a humorous sound in his throat. “Everyone was given a job to make your day special. Wyatt’s on dinner duty.”

Wyatt’s eyes flicker with something I can’t quite read, but it’s not anger. He sighs, the sound barely audible over the crashing waves. “Yeah. It’s the only way I didn’t have to come in your close proximity.”

Ahh, that makes sense. I relax my shoulders now that Wyatt is once again the calculating dick I’m used to. All is right in the world again.

Wyatt moves toward the small barbeque setup, pulling further packages of meat and buns from his deep cargo pocketsand placing them beside the grill. My eyes continually flick up, curiously watching him work while the others try to distract me with gentle conversation.

I turn my attention towards the sea, catching the last speck of sun peering over the horizon just as it sinks out of sight. The sky has quickly gone dark, only a strip of clouded red visible in the distance as if mourning the loss of light. The loss of a day that should have been filled with laughter and joy, but I can’t resonate with the guilt that threatens to take over. In Huxley’s arms, Axel pressed up against me, Dax just beyond and Garrett relaxing, singing a gentle song to himself, I can’t regret a single thing. This is perfect. They are perfect.

The smell of sizzling meat quickly fills the air, mixing with the salty ocean breeze and the smoky scent of the fire. I can’t stop glancing at Wyatt, quietly flipping burgers, his back to me. To an untrained eye, he might appear at ease, but I know better. Wyatt is never at ease around me. He stands with his back ramrod straight, his movements are slightly robotic and every once in a while, his hand shakes slightly. He quickly shoves it into his pocket, doing most tasks with just his left hand.

“Food’s ready,” Wyatt announces flatly, handing out the stacked buns without a plate in sight. His tone is all business, but when he passes one to me, his fingers brush mine. I feel the briefest spark of heat before he quickly pulls away.

I wait for the others to take a bite first, still not certain Wyatt wouldn’t take great satisfaction in trying to kill me off and save himself the hassle of staying here. Sitting opposite with his own burger, Wyatt’s eyes spear me expectantly. A small pause stretches between us, the crackling fire filling the silence. I take a bite, praying the others will revive me should anything go wrong, but all that explodes in my mouth is flavor.

“Damn, these are really good Riot!” Garrett exclaims around a mouthful. I have to give credit where it’s due and nod along inagreement. Turning away from our praise, Wyatt looks out to the sea, his breathing even and controlled.

“I’ve been cooking with Rachel these past two weeks, she’s a big fan of garlic salt,” he smiles into the distance. A sudden reality hits me. Wyatt has left someone behind, someone he clearly cares for.His biological mom.

“What’s she like?” I ask tentatively. A flash of emotion crosses Wyatt’s face and for a moment, I think he’s going to tell me to mind my own damn business. But then it passes and he relaxes once more.

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