Page 30 of Fatal Fantasy

“Baby girl, are you alright?” Tyson groans, his voice groggy from sleep, but I only nod, not wanting to wake Jasper, too.

“Surprisingly, yes. I can’t remember the last time I slept for more than an hour at a time,” I say, waving my hand, encouraging him to follow me into the bathroom.

He climbs out of bed in slow motion, a stabbing pain invading my chest as he stretches first, reaching for his cane before taking a step.

Between him and Jasper, I have many crimes to attest to, but when it comes to Tyson nearly being paralyzed for the rest of his life, that sin resides at the top of a very long list.

“You’re safe now, Carter. There’s going to be a lot of things you’ll have to get used to again.” He reaches behind my back, turning on the shower while slowly stripping out of his clothes.

Always a vision, I can’t help but stare as his bare chest is revealed, marveling at each muscle protruding from his large frame.

“See something you like?” He teases, dropping the shorts and boxers at the same time, causing my gaze to travel lower and lower until my eyes land on his rock hard cock.

It’s been months since I’ve seen the monster between his legs, and although my sex drive has been non-existent since leaving Jersey, my body trembles at the sight of him stark naked, a welcome heat flushing my cheeks.

“Sorry, it’s … you’re still built like a tree, Tyson,” I laugh, lifting the sweatshirt over my head, deciding in the moment to join him under the spray.

When the cool air reaches my skin, I shudder, hating that being vulnerable with Tyson means a heavy dose of exposure therapy, but after the night I shared with Jasper, I’m desperate to reconnect with both my boys.

“Come here, baby girl. Let’s take it slow.” He holds his hand out, clasping our palms together while I step over the porcelain, both of us using each other for support while we catch our balance.

“Did Jasper tell you about my nightmare?” I muse, wondering just how much he knows, because I meant it when I said I’d be telling the whole truth from now on.

“No, but I heard you. I was right outside the door,” he explains, and I nod in relief, thankful I don’t have to tell the story twice.

He presses my back to the wall, lightly splashing my skin without using the shower head, keeping the amount of water manageable, while avoiding my face completely.

“Does it hurt? When you walk, I mean?” I ask, looking up into his eyes while he dips under the spray, soaking his body and giving mine a break.

“It did at first, when I was weaker. The therapists really helped though, from the exercises to the encouragement. I had plenty of reasons to keep going, to wake up and do better than the day before,” he says, and for the first time, I steal a glimpse at his scars, three large bullet-shaped holes standing out on his skin.

Without thinking, I reach out to trace the one on his stomach, to feel the bubbled-over wounds, but he flinches, jumping backward before my hand can meet his flesh.

“Shit, sorry, I should’ve asked,” I stammer, averting my gaze out of shame, feeling like an idiot for just assuming I could touch his scars without inciting a trauma response from him.

“It’s alright, Carter.” He places his hand over mine, guiding my fingers to the first scar, the hole bigger than the rest.

The skin beneath the pad of my thumb feels tight, likely from the stitches, and the redness around the tissue sticks out against his tanned skin.

“This is where the bullet lodged against my spine. It took two surgeries for the doctors to break it down enough to be safely removed. Thankfully, they kept me in a coma through it all,” he explains, his muscles tense as he recounts the harrowing details behind the scariest moments of his near death experience.

“I’m so sorry, Tyson. I hate what my father did to you,” I sigh, the guilt rattling my bones, but he only tilts my chin, forcing my eyes into his.

“It’s not your fault. I need you to let go of this and stop feeling like you did this to me. I survived and learned to walk again for you, Carter. Everything I did, every breath and step I took in recovery, was for this exact moment when you’d be back in my arms.” He envelopes me into his chest, a sweeping sadness stealing the breath from my lungs while he holds me close, absolving my guilt-ridden consciousness as the seconds pass.

“You always believed in me, didn’t you?”

“While I had my doubts, I wasn’t as full fledged on sentencing you to death as Massi. I had to hear your side of the story, but deep down, I only got better for you. I promised myself that when I could walk, I’d come see you. I jumped on that plane a week later,” he confesses, and I pull my head from his chest, taking note of his features while his eyes remain shut, head tipped toward the ceiling.

“You didn’t get better only for me,” I argue, not buying his sentiments for a second.

We were apart for six months, most of which he spent thinking I was a traitor, meaning there’s no chance that he dedicated his recovery solely to the idea of me.

“Yes, I did. Every fucking thing I do is for you, baby girl.” He tangles his fingers in my hair, a raging fire lit behind his eyes, forcing me to trust what he’s saying, a certain brand of sincerity that I can always count on hiding behind his words, working to accentuate them in a way that reminds me how genuine he truly is.

“Remember how when we first met you gave me a dumbass nickname?” I laugh, kicking each leg under the water while staying in the space against the wall I’ve deemed safe.

“You hated it,” he laughs, reminding me how closed off I was when we all met, the sassy little attitude I carried bringing us on a wild ride from the second we connected.