Page 152 of California Wild

Jesse stayed where he was, hands clenched, breath shallow.

What the fuck did I just do?

She was crying.

Fuck.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. The dried blood on his knuckle flaked under his palm, stinging as he pressed it to his temple.

He could still feel it. The way Caiden’s cheek hit his fist. The jolt through his arm. The sick satisfaction that followed. Maybe he did want to kill him. Wouldn’t be the first or the last person Jesse killed.

But now? All he felt was the after.

The ache.

The regret.

The weight of it.

He stood, slow and quiet, and made his way toward the bedroom. The shower was still running. Water beating a steady rhythm on the tile. He stepped into the doorway, leaned against the frame.

The glass fogged, but he could see the outline of her—stunning, curved, soft.

His cock twitched.

But he didn’t call out. Didn’t push. She needed space. That much he could read, even through the water and steam.

So instead, he backed away.

He peeled off his hoodie. His shirt. Jeans. Socks. Everything but his boxers. The bed was still messy from the morning—sheets twisted, pillows kicked down.

He slid under the covers, lay flat on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other drumming slow, absent fingers against his chest.

Waiting.

Listening.

Hurting.

The bathroom light cut off.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Scrubbed pink, skin still damp and flushed from the heat. Hair tied up. No makeup. Raw.

She was wearing his Disturbed t-shirt again—claimed and oversized, sleeves hanging off her shoulder.

She stood in the doorway for a long second, staring at him.

His chest clenched. “Babe,” he said, soft. “Come here.”

She exhaled. Didn’t speak.

But she moved.

Turned off the light behind her and crossed the room, slow, like every step took effort.

---