Page 13 of Bee

6

Rye

Talk about taking my work home.

It's been a full day since Bee showed up at my house, and it's not be a cake walk.

I hate seeing people hurting. Even if they have nothing to do with me. It literally angers me.

Bee is curled up on the couch, her body shaking like a leaf in a storm. She’s a mess—sweat-dampened hair sticking to her forehead, dark circles carving hollows under her eyes. Her hands twitch against the blanket I tossed over her, and she keeps cursing under her breath like she’s trying to scare the withdrawal away.

I’ve seen a lot of people go through this. It’s never pretty. But Bee? Even at her absolute worst, she’s got more fire in her than anyone I’ve ever met.

“Fuck, I hate this,” she mutters, her voice raw. “I’d kill a nun for a drink right now.”

I smirk, crouching beside the couch, keeping my hands to myself even though everything in me wants to touch her. Holdher down, steady her. “Yeah? Any particular nun, or just the first one you see?”

She gives me a half-hearted glare, but the corner of her mouth twitches, and for a second, I see her. The Bee from before. The one who walked into my bar like she owned the place, with that smart mouth and eyes that dared me to take her on.

Then the tremors hit her harder, and she curls in on herself, breathing through clenched teeth. I reach for the damp cloth on the table and press it against her forehead.

She jerks like she’s gonna shove me away, but she doesn’t.

“Why are you even doing this?” she grits out, not looking at me. “You don’t owe me anything.”

She’s wrong. I don’t owe her a damn thing. But I want to be here.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. “Because someone should.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, sharp and searching, like she’s waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, she looks away, licking her chapped lips. My stomach tightens at the sight of her tongue.

I should not be thinking about her like this. Not now. Not ever.

But I do.

I think about what that mouth would feel like on me. How it would sound if she moaned my name instead of cursing the world. I think about how easy it would be to give in—to let myself fall, because hell, it’s been so long, and if I’m gonna fall for anyone, of course it’d be the woman who’s gonna rip me to fucking pieces.

It’s a pattern. A sickness.

And I can already feel the fever setting in.

Bee shifts, and her fingers brush my arm. It’s the smallest touch, but it feels like a brand.

“I hate this,” she whispers. “I hate feeling like this.”

I clench my jaw, trying to shake off the hunger crawling under my skin. She’s not yours to want, Rye. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“I know,” I murmur, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders. “But you’re gonna get through it.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “And then what?”

And then what? Then I’ll either walk away before she destroys me, or I’ll let her take me apart piece by piece.

But I don’t say that.

Instead, I just watch her, and I know, I’m already too far gone.

Four dayslater

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