Page 104 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“Don’t ever let me go, Nicky,” I whisper to his chest.
“I won’t,” he vows as his arms go even tighter.
But we both hear the unspoken words that are hanging in the air around us. He did let me go. To the Russians.
The thought sits between us like a living thing, heavy and accusatory. I don’t mean it. I know I don’t mean it. But survival mode doesn’t care about fairness or logic. It only knows that I was taken, that I was in danger, that the safety I thought we’d built turned out to be an illusion.
I left prison and went straight into his world. From one violent world to another. And he didn’t protect me.
The thought is cruel and unfair, and I hate myself for thinking it even as it circles through my mind like a vulture. Because Nicky did everything he could. He mobilized an army, called in every favor, moved heaven and earth to find me. He came crashing through that door like an avenging angel, ready to burn down the world to get me back.
Just like the adrenaline leaving my body, I know it’s not his fault. He did everything he could. He came to get me.
But right now, my survival mode is in control, and that beast is primitive. And it has been the boss of me for a long, long time. Five years of prison taught it well, trained it to see danger in every shadow, to trust nothing and no one completely, to understand that safety is always temporary and violence is always lurking just around the corner.
Nicky tries to move away, probably to turn off the still-steaming kettle or retrieve the abandoned tea-making supplies, and I make a truly pathetic sound. Something between a whimper and a sob, the kind of noise that would mortify me under normal circumstances but right now is completely involuntary.
He freezes immediately, his body going still against mine, and then surrenders to my need to be held. The kettle can wait. The tea can wait. Everything can wait except this fundamental need for contact, for the reassurance that he’s real and here and not going anywhere.
“Shall we go to bed?” he asks softly, his lips moving against my hair. “It will be more comfortable.”
I nod my head, rubbing it against his chest muscles. Yes. In bed, he will be able to hold me for hours and it will be far better than standing in the middle of the living room. Inbed, we can burrow under the covers and create our own small world where nothing can touch us.
We make it to bed slowly, hampered by my inability to be even one centimeter away from Nicky. It’s awkward, shuffling down the hallway while wrapped around each other like tangled vines, but neither of us suggests separating even for the few seconds it would take to walk normally. But finally we manage it, tumbling onto the mattress in an ungraceful heap that would be funny if everything didn’t feel so raw and desperate.
We settle in the middle of the bed, face to face, wrapped around each other. Nicky’s clever fingers make quick work of our clothes until we’re stripped down to just our boxers, the fabric barriers between us reduced to almost nothing.
This is so much better. So much skin against skin. So much of Nicky’s body heat is warming my numb and icy flesh. His warmth seeps into me everywhere we touch. Chest to chest, legs tangled together, his arms creating a cocoon around my shaking form. It feels like I am stealing his life force, but I can’t stop.
In fact, I want more. I want to feel his heat everywhere. I want it to burn all the darkness away. Want it to cauterize the wounds that have been torn open by today’s terror, to sear away the memories of hands grabbing me, guns pointed at me, the helpless fear of being trapped with no escape.
“Claim me,” I whisper hoarsely.
The words escape before I can stop them, dragged up from that primitive part of my brain that only understands possession and territory and the kind of safety that comes from belonging to someone stronger than yourself.
Nicky moves away a little, just enough to look at me properly, and I immediately regret speaking. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see his expression. And I brace myself for his disappointment and outrage. For the reminder that we’ve been through this before, that he’s already explained why that’s not what I need, why recreating toxic dynamics won’t heal the trauma underneath.
His thumb brushes gently over my cheek. Wiping away tears I didn’t even know had fallen.
“I don’t need to,” he says tenderly, and there’s no judgment in his voice, no frustration at having to explain this again. Just infinite patience and understanding. “Everyone already knows you’re mine.”
I open my eyes and see nothing but kindness and understanding in his gaze. No disappointment, no anger, no weariness at having to deal with my broken brain making the same demands over and over.
“Dario knows,” he says, his voice low and certain. “Molly, Dante, Carlo. Even the Russians.”
The words settle over me like a blanket, warm and reassuring. Evidence. Proof. The kind of concrete reality my panicking mind can actually process.
I suck in a shaky breath, oxygen finally making it past the tightness in my chest. “Yeah, their boss gave them hell for abducting Nicolo Ricci’s boy.”
The memory should be terrifying. That moment when the Russian boss realized who I was, the panic in his voice as he understood the magnitude of his men’s mistake. But instead, it’s oddly comforting. Because he was right to panic. Because I’m not just some random victim. I’mNicolo Ricci’s boy, and that means something in this world.
Nicky shifts slightly. His chest swells with what I’m almost certain is pride. Not pride in owning me like a possession, but pride in claiming me as his, in making that connection so clear that even enemies recognize it instantly.
“See? You are already mine. Everyone knows it, and I’m never going to let anything bad happen to you ever again.”
The promise should sound hollow because we both know he can’t guarantee that, can’t control every variable in a dangerous world. But somehow it doesn’t. Somehow it feels like truth, solid and unshakeable.
Something in my chest eases. Deep inside me, things click into place. They settle and all the discomfort, tension and tightness dissipates like morning fog burned away by sunlight.
