**Chapter 7: Breaking**
The silence in the house is too loud.
It presses against my eardrums like water. Like a weight. Like a verdict.
I’m sitting at the edge of my bed, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the half-open suitcase on the floor. Clothes spilled out like surrender flags. Jeans. Sweaters. The gray hoodie he stole from my closet and never gave back. I haven’t folded it back up. I can’t.
Because if I fold it, I have to pretend it’s just fabric.
It’s not. It’s him. It’s Cole. It’s the smell of him. The way his fingers dig into my hips. The way he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from burning the world down.
A knock at my door.
Soft. Hesitant.
My mother.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat like shattered glass. I don’t answer. I just stare at the door, at the gap beneath it where the hallway light spills across my floorboards.
“Emma?” Her voice is quiet. Too quiet. “Are you in there?”
I nod. Even though she can’t see me. Even though she won’t know.
Footsteps. The door opens.
She stands in the doorway, bathed in pale yellow light. Her hair is pulled back, no makeup, wearing that faded cardigan she only wears on Sundays. Her eyes are tired. Dark circles beneath them. She’s been awake all night. I know it. I feel it.
She looks at the suitcase. Looks at me. Looks at the clothes scattered across my floor.
“Packing?” she asks. Her voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t fall. It just sits there, heavy.
I swallow. My throat clicks. “Yeah.”
“Going somewhere?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I say yes, I have to admit I’m running. And if I admit I’m running, I have to admit why.
She steps inside. Closes the door behind her. The click echoes like a gunshot.
She sits on the edge of my bed. The mattress dips. I don’t move.
“Emma,” she says. “What’s happening?”
I close my eyes. My chest tightens. My ribs feel too small for my lungs. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice cracks. Just a little. Just enough. “I’ve been watching you. You haven’t been eating. You jump when someone speaks too loud. You look at him like he’s your oxygen. And then you look at him like you’re drowning.”
My eyes snap open. I stare at her. At the woman who birthed me. Who braided my hair. Who taught me how to tie my shoes and how to lie when I needed to.
She’s seeing it. All of it. Every fucking piece.
“He’s not good for you,” she whispers. “I don’t know what’s happening between you and him, but I know guilt when I see it. And you’re drowning in it.”
I want to tell her the truth. I want to say his name. I want to say Cole. I want to say he looked at me like I was sacred. I want to say his hands are everywhere. I want to say I’ve never felt so alive and so ruined in the same breath.
But I can’t.
Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it becomes real, I can’t unsee it. I can’t unfeel it. I can’t pretend I’m still clean.
“I’m leaving,” I say. My voice is raw. Shattered. “Tomorrow. I’m going back to the city. I’ll take a job. I’ll start over.”
She stares at me. Her lips press into a thin line. Her hands twist in her lap. “You can’t run from this.”
“I’m not running,” I lie. Tears burn behind my eyes. Hot. Relentless. “I’m choosing. There’s a difference.”
There isn’t. There never is.
She reaches out. Touches my knee. Her fingers are warm. Trembling. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t throw your life away over something that doesn’t belong to you.”
I pull my leg away. Stand up. My knees shake. “It belongs to me,” I whisper. “It’s mine to break.”
She doesn’t argue. She just watches me. Her eyes are wet. Her chest rises and falls too fast. She wants to say more. I can see it in the way her jaw clenches. The way her fingers curl. The way she looks at me like she’s watching me walk off a cliff.
But she doesn’t stop me.
Because she knows.
She knows I’m already gone.
***
The suitcase zips shut. I shove it under the bed. I pull on jeans. A black sweater. Boots. I don’t pack a toothbrush. I don’t pack my charger. I don’t pack the photo of me and Cole from the cabin, tucked inside my journal. I leave it face-down on the nightstand. Like it’s evidence.
I’m still lacing my boots when I hear the front door slam.
My breath stops.
Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Determined.
They echo up the stairs. One. Two. Three.
They stop outside my door.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just stare at the wood grain on the floor like it’ll save me.
The door opens.
He’s there.
Cole.
He’s still in the shirt he wore earlier. Dark. Torn at the shoulder. Sweat on his neck. His eyes are black. Feral. Possessive. Wild.
He doesn’t speak.
He just stares at me like I’m a ghost. Like I’m already gone.
My chest cracks open.
“You’re packing,” he says. His voice is rough. Shaved down to bone.
I nod. I can’t speak. I can’t trust my voice. Not with him looking at me like that. Not with him standing in my doorway like he owns the air I’m breathing.
He steps inside. Closes the door. The click is final.
He crosses the room in two strides. Grabs my wrist. Pulls me up. I stumble into him. His hands are on my waist. His chest is hard. His breathing is ragged.
“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t you fucking leave.”
“I have to,” I whisper. My voice breaks. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep looking at you like that. I can’t keep letting you ruin me and then pretending I’m the one who asked for it.”
His jaw clenches. His grip tightens. Just enough to bruise. Just enough to anchor me.
“You think I’m ruining you?” he asks. His voice drops. Dark. Heavy. “You think I’m the monster here?”
“I think I’m your sister’s friend,” I say. The words spill out like blood. “I think I’m supposed to be off-limits. I think I’m supposed to walk away. I think I should have walked away months ago.”
He laughs. It’s not a laugh. It’s a broken sound. Raw. Ugly. “You’re not off-limits. You’re mine. You’ve been mine since the day you looked at me across that kitchen and didn’t look away.”
I shake my head. Tears spill over. Hot. Fast. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to claim me. Not like this. Not when my mother’s sitting downstairs wondering why I’m shaking every time your name comes up. Not when I’m lying in bed at night remembering the way you touch me and feeling like I’m rotting from the inside out.”
His eyes darken. Something shifts in his chest. Something cracks.
He drops to his knees.
I gasp. My hands fly to my mouth. He never kneels. He never bows. He never breaks.
But he does.
He grabs my hands. Pulls them down. Presses his forehead to my stomach. His shoulders shake. His breath comes in ragged gasps.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “God, Emma. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know how to be gentle. I only knew how to take. How to claim. How to make sure you never looked at anyone else.”
I’m trembling. My knees buckle. I sink down with him. My hands are in his hair. His hair is soft. Messy. Real.
“I love you,” I whisper. The words surprise me. Surprise us both.
He goes still.
His head lifts. His eyes are red. Wet. Shattered.
He stares at me like I just handed him a weapon. Like I just handed him everything.
“Say it again,” he demands. His voice is a wreck. “Say it again.”
I can’t. I won’t. Not yet. Not when my chest feels like it’s caving in. Not when the guilt is a live wire in my veins.
He stands. Pulls me up with him. My back hits the wall. His body presses against me. Hard. Hot. Unforgiving.
He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. He just stares at my mouth. His breathing is uneven. His fingers dig into my hips. Hard enough to leave marks. Hard enough to anchor me.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he says. “You think I don’t see you trying to leave so you can stop feeling this. So you can pretend you’re still clean. Still whole.”
I shake my head. “I’m trying to save you.”
He laughs. It’s bitter. Broken. “You’re saving yourself. And you’re going to fail. Because I’m not letting you walk out that door. Not tonight. Not ever.”
His hands slide up. Under my sweater. Over my skin. His palms are hot. Rough. He knows exactly where I’m sensitive. Exactly where I break.
I gasp. My head falls back. My fingers curl into his shirt.
“Please,” I whisper. I don’t know what I’m begging for. Mercy. Ruin. Both.
He doesn’t answer with words.
He answers with his mouth.
He crashes into mine. Hard. Desperate. Like he’s drowning and I’m the only air left. His tongue pushes past my lips. Demanding. Possessive. I taste like salt. Like fear. Like him.
My hands fly to his hair. I pull. He groans. Deep. Raw. His hips press against mine. Hard. Unyielding. I can feel him. Already. Already so hard. Already so fucking ready.
I arch into him. A whimper escapes my throat. Useless. Inevitable.
He lifts me. Slams me against the wall. My back hits drywall. I cry out. He doesn’t stop. He never does. He grabs my thigh. Wraps it around his hip. Presses me higher. His hand slides between my legs. Through my jeans.
I’m already wet. So fucking wet. Dripping. Aching. Begging.
He curses. His fingers push through my underwear. Find me. Already swollen. Already slick.
“Look at you,” he growls. “So fucking ready for me. Even when you’re trying to run.”
I shudder. My nails dig into his shoulders. “Cole—”
He pulls back. Grabs my waist. Hikes up my jeans. Rips them down. Kicks them off. He doesn’t care about the door. Doesn’t care about the house. Doesn’t care about anything but me.
He tears my panties down. My shoes. My socks. He doesn’t stop. He can’t.
He drops to his knees again. Grabs my hips. Pulls me over the edge of the bed. I fall back. He follows. On top of me. Caging me in.
His mouth finds my neck. Bites. Sucks. Marks. I gasp. My fingers tangle in his hair. He moves down. Past my collarbone. Past my ribs. Past my stomach. He stops at my waistband. Pushes it down. My underwear follows.
I’m bare. Exposed. Trembling.
He stares at me like I’m a religion.
Then he looks up. His eyes are dark. Feral. Broken.
“I’m not letting you go,” he whispers. “Even if you hate me. Even if you never forgive me. Even if you lock me out forever. I’m not letting you go.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because he’s already between my legs.
His mouth finds me.
First, slow. Teasing. A feather-light drag of his tongue across my clit. I jerk. My back arches. A cry tears from my throat.
Then he’s deeper. Harder. His tongue works me like he’s trying to carve my name into my bones. Suck. Flick. Lick. His hands grip my thighs. Hold me open. Hold me down.
I’m shaking. My hips buck. My fingers claw at the sheets. He doesn’t let me. He just takes it. Takes my sounds. Takes my tremors. Takes my ruin.
His thumb presses against my clit. His tongue pushes inside. Deep. Wet. Unforgiving.
I’m sobbing. I don’t care. I can’t care. My back arches off the mattress. My chest heaves. My pussy clenches. Already so fucking wet. Already dripping onto his face.
He hums. Vibrates against me. The sound goes straight to my core. I break.
He catches me. Holds me through it. One hand in my hair. The other pressed against my stomach. Grounding me. Claiming me.
I come apart. Screaming his name. Shaking. Clenching. Dripping.
He doesn’t stop. He rides out every pulse. Every spasm. Every tear. He licks me clean. Swallows it. Like he’s trying to consume me.
When I finally still, he’s still above me. Panting. Breathing like he’s been underwater.
I reach up. Touch his face. His skin is hot. Damp. My thumb traces his jaw. His stubble. His lips.
He covers my hand with his. Presses it to his cheek. Closes his eyes.
“Again,” he whispers. “Let me do it again.”
I nod. I can’t speak. I don’t need to. He knows.
He stands. Strips off his shirt. Shoves his pants down. His cock springs free. Thick. Hard. Veined. Already leaking.
I stare at it. My breath hitches. My pussy clenches again. Just from looking.
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t play. He steps between my legs. Grabs my hips. Lines himself up.
I’m still slick. Still trembling. Still his.
He pushes in.
Deep. Fast. Unforgiving.
I cry out. My back arches. My fingers dig into his shoulders. He’s so big. So fucking perfect. Stretching me. Filling me. Claiming me.
He stills. Buried to the hilt. His forehead drops to mine. His breathing is ragged. Shattered.
“I love you,” he says.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
I freeze. My chest cracks open. My eyes fill. His hands shake on my hips. His jaw clenches. He doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t explain it. He just holds me. Like he’s terrified I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I wrap my legs around his waist. Pull him deeper. “Again,” I whisper. “Say it again.”
He closes his eyes. Swallows hard. “I love you.”
The words shatter something inside me. Something I’ve been holding together with tape and silence and denial. I break. I sob. I pull him down. Kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Needing.
He groans. Stands. Lifts me. Turns. Slams me onto my stomach. My chest hits the mattress. My ass rises. He doesn’t hesitate.
He grabs my hips. Drives in. Deep. Hard. Relentless.
I scream. My nails scrape the sheets. My back arches. He’s everywhere. Stretching me. Filling me. Ruining me.
He sets a pace. Fast. Brutal. Unforgiving. Each thrust hits the same spot. Over and over. Grinding. Claiming. Owning.
I’m babbling. His name. Please. More. I’m his. I’m his. I’m his.
He doesn’t speak. He just fucks me like he’s trying to brand me. Like he’s trying to fuse us together. Like he’d rather die than let me walk away.
His hand wraps around my throat. Not tight. Not enough to choke. Enough to control. Enough to remind me who’s in charge.
I arch into it. Whisper his name. Beg him to go deeper. He does.
My pussy clenches around him. Already close. Already shaking.
He feels it. Grinds harder. “Cum for me,” he growls. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
I don’t have to be told twice.
I shatter. Screaming. Clenching. Dripping. My back bows. My thighs tremble. My chest heaves. He holds me through it. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.
He’s close. I can feel it. The way his hips stutter. The way his breath hitches. The way his grip tightens on my hips.
He buries his face in my neck. Bites down. Hard.
“I love you,” he says again. Right before he comes.
His cock pulses. Hard. Relentless. He empties inside me. Deep. Hot. Claiming. I feel every drop. Every throb. Every pulse of him filling me.
I collapse. Shaking. Sobbing. Boneless.
He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried. His weight presses me into the mattress. His breath is hot against my ear. His hands are still on my hips. Still holding me. Still refusing to let go.
I’m ruined. I’m wrecked. I’m his.
I don’t care.
I just want him to stay.
The door creaks open.
We both freeze.
I don’t turn. I don’t look. I just close my eyes. My heart stops.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
A voice. Calm. Cold. Familiar.
“Well,” my mother says. “I see I interrupted something.”
My blood turns to ice.
Cole doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even breathe.
My mother’s footsteps stop at the edge of the bed.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t faint.
She just looks down at us. At his cock still buried inside me. At my trembling thighs. At the way his hands are still wrapped around my hips like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
Then she speaks.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” she says. Her voice is steady. Dead. “Because you think it’ll fix this. You think distance will erase what happened. What’s happening.”
I shake my head. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe.
She leans down. Her voice drops. Low. Dangerous. Final.
“You don’t get to walk away, Emma. Not now. Not ever. Because he’s not the only one who’s been watching you.”
My breath stops.
She straightens. Turns. Walks to the door.
“Pack your bags,” she says. “Tomorrow morning. We’re leaving. And you’re going to tell me everything. Every fucking word. Every fucking touch. Every fucking time he looked at you like you were his religion.”
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Cole’s hands tighten on my hips. His breathing is ragged. Shattered.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just stare at the ceiling. At the crack in the paint. At the life I’m about to lose.
Because my mother’s not asking.
She’s threatening.
And she’s not bluffing.
Cole’s lips press to my shoulder. His voice is a wreck. A promise. A warning.
“She can’t take you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn it down before I let her take you.”
I close my eyes.
Because I know what that means.
I know what’s coming.
And I know I’m already too far gone to walk away.
The hook: My mother’s warning isn’t just about us. It’s a deadline. And somewhere, in the quiet dark of the house, a phone starts ringing. It’s Cole’s. He knows the number. His jaw tightens. His grip on me hardens. Because that caller isn’t family. It’s the reason he swore he’d never drag me into his world. And now, it’s already here.