Page 54 of Brazen Being It

Gone.

Just like that.

The man who haunted my nightmares, the one I never thought I’d outrun. It doesn’t feel real. The world feels too quiet. I want to collapse or scream or laugh but all I do is hold him tighter, as if letting go would unravel everything. I squeeze my eyes shut, memorizing the way his heart beats beneath my palm.

We move inside his trailer, side by side, his hand tight around mine. I check him over, I see he is scratched up, but not injured. Relief crashes through me, leaving my knees weak.

His knuckles are split and raw, blood caked into the creases. I grab a clean washcloth, run it under warm water, and press it gently to his hand. He doesn’t wince. Just watches me with an intensity that’s almost frightening. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but I see something deeper there—deeper than lust, deeper than relief. It’s devotion. The kind of devotion that demands to be believed.

“You didn’t have to do it,” I say softly, wiping the blood away, careful not to hurt him. “You didn’t owe me that.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re wrong. I owe you everything. For a lifetime. You made me see what kind of man I want to be.”

I pause, cloth stilled on his skin. “I’m no one’s redemption plan.”

He leans closer, the air between us electric. “You’re mine.”

My chest tightens, hope and fear tangling together. I look up at him, this man who walked into my wreckage brazen with a plan and made my fight his fight.

For a long time, I thought I was broken beyond repair. That no one could touch me without falling into my ruin. But Drew, he just waded in, stubborn and gentle, and made a home for both of us in the wreckage.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. No pretending,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t falter. “I do. Every word.”

When he kisses me, it isn’t rushed or desperate. It’s slow. Intentional. Like he’s memorizing me, cataloguing every sigh and shiver, tracing each scar with the reverence it deserves. I let him. I want him to. Because for once, I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to pretend I don’t care.

The trailer is quiet except for the gentle rustle of the wind through the gauzy curtains. Moonlight spills across the hardwood, turning the room silver. I think maybe the world is trying to tell me something—maybe it’s okay to rest. Maybe it’s okay to believe this is real.

After his shower, Drew stands by the window, shirtless, hair damp and messy. He’s looking out, but I can tell his mind is a million miles away. His hands are trembling slightly. So are mine.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” he says softly, not turning around. His voice is so vulnerable it nearly breaks me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the sheets warm beneath my thighs. I twist the hem of my camisole in my hands, grounding myself in the sensation. “You’re not dreaming,” I promise.

He finally turns to look at me. There’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before—not just wonder or sadness for my past, but hunger. Passion, raw and unshielded. Like he’s seeing me, truly seeing me, for the first time.

“This feels like—” he starts, words failing.

“Everything,” I finish for him, the word barely a breath.

He crosses the room slowly, barefoot and careful, as if afraid one wrong step will break the spell. But he stops just short of touching me, eyes searching mine for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that he should pull back. I don’t give him any. Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to his, softly, no rush. No fire. Just a lingering promise that I’m here, that I’m not running.

His hands find my waist, tentative at first. When I sigh into his mouth, he exhales against my cheek, like he’s been holding that breath for years. Maybe he has. Maybe we both have.

I let him undress me slowly. Every inch of fabric sliding down my skin feels important like he’s memorizing me with his hands, like he’s trying to etch me into memory in case the morning steals me away. When his fingers graze the edge of my panties, he pauses, looking up into my eyes for permission.

“Yes,” I say simply, no fear, no shame.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. That’s part of why I fell for him without meaning to. Every touch is deliberate, every motion meant. He treats me like I’m something sacred. Even now, when everything inside me aches for him, he slows it down, determined to make me feel every moment, to make every second matter.

I pull him onto the bed with me, guiding him with my hands, threading my fingers into his hair as I press kisses along his jaw, down his throat. His skin tastes like salt and warmth and something I can’t name.

“Cambria...” he breathes, and hearing my name in a pant makes my heart stutter in my chest.

“I’m here,” I murmur. “Always will be.”

“Always,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little. There’s a promise in that word, one that feels heavy with truth.

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