Page 98 of Feeding Hope
The space between them snapped. He crossed it in two steps, skirted the island, stopping so close she could feel the heat of him, smell the road still clinging to his cut and skin.
“I had business for the chapter, I couldn’t tell you without dragging you deeper into my world and you don’t deserve that shit.”
Constance laughed softly, broken. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Something in him cracked then. She saw it, felt it, when his jaw tightened and his hands flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back.
“Christ, Constance ,” he muttered, forehead dropping to hers. “You’re the only thing I don’t know how to lose.”
And he was afraid if he’d come to her that night after what he’d done to Tiny and Booger…he wouldn’t have been able to handle what he’d have seen in her eyes.
Her breath hitched. Her hands came up, gripping his shirt like she needed proof he was real, that he wasn’t about to vanish again. “Then don’t leave.”
That did it.
His mouth found hers … hard, desperate, full of everything he hadn’t said. The kiss wasn’t pretty. It was messy and aching and raw, like they were fighting for ground they’d both already claimed. He backed her into the wall, body caging her in, not to trap her—but because he needed to feel her there. Solid. Choosing him.
His hand slid to her hip, thumb digging in like he was anchoring himself. “You make me weak,” he growled against her mouth. “And I hate how bad I fuckin’ need you.”
She met that darkness without fear. “Then need me.”
The words hit him square in the chest.
He rested his forehead against hers again, breathing hard, the restraint costing him something fierce. When his lips traced her jaw, her neck, slow, reverent. It wasn’t about taking. It was about claiming something he was terrified to lose. Outside, the wind rattled the trees. Inside, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the way he held her like letting go would break him.
For the first time in a long time, Frost was choosing to stay.
“I need a shower. I need you.” he said, his voice low, strained, it held so much emotion he trembled.
“I need to go to work.”
“No. Stay here with me. A little while. Please.” God he sounded so pathetic, weak, he didn’t care. All he’d thought about whilehe’d been away was getting back to her. Hoping praying that he hadn’t completely fucked up.
He wasn’t used to feeling this way. He didn’t know how to deal with them. But he was willing to learn, to figure it out—with her. If she’d let him. If she could forgive him.
She let go of him, stepping back only long enough to set her things on the counter. Her fingers found his again, grounding, familiar, and she led him toward the bathroom without a word.
The space was small, intimate, and when she turned on the shower the sound of the water filled the silence between them. Steam began to rise almost immediately, curling around his shoulders, softening the edges of a man who looked worn down to the bone.
Constance reached for him and eased his leather cut from his shoulders. It was heavier than she expected, or maybe it just felt that way because of everything it carried with it, weeks gone, nights she hadn’t slept, questions she wouldn’t ask. She hung it carefully on the back of the door, giving it the deserved respect that came with wearing it.
When she turned back to him, she didn’t rush. She helped him undress, her hands gentle, deliberate. His skin was warm beneath her touch, but she could feel the fatigue in him, the way his shoulders sagged the moment he let her take over.
He’d been gone a month. Not a call. Not a word. And now he was here, standing in her bathroom, asking her to stay a little while —as if he wasn’t already asking for more than that.
She heard it in his voice when he said it. Felt it in the way his fingers tightened briefly around hers. Whatever he’d ridden into, whatever had kept him away, it had taken something out of him.
So she stayed.
Constance didn’t ask where he’d been. Didn’t ask what had happened. According to Faith, club business was its own language, and she needed to know it was best left alone.
For now, it was enough that he was here. That he’d come back to her.
Constance stayed with him, hands steady as she finished helping him out of the last of his clothes. When he was bare beneath the spray, exposed in a way he rarely allowed, she pressed her palm between his shoulder blades—anchoring him there, reminding him he wasn’t alone.
“Just stand,” she murmured softly.
She guided him closer, close enough that the steam beaded on his skin. When she reached past him and adjusted the water, she waited until it was just right before nudging him beneath the spray.
