# Chapter 3: The Past

The rain hasn’t stopped for three days. It drums against my apartment windows like it’s trying to break through, but it’s the silence inside that’s the real violence. It’s heavy. Suffocating. It presses against my ribs every time I breathe.

Cole stands in the center of my living room, water pooling around his boots, his jacket dripping onto my hardwood floor. He hasn’t taken it off. He hasn’t said a word since he stepped through my door an hour ago. Just watched me. Like he’s memorizing the shape of me all over again. Like I’m a ghost he’s been chasing through a warzone.

Ten years.

Three thousand six hundred and fifty days. That’s how long it’s been since he walked out of my life without a note, without a call, without even a text. Just a hollowed-out apartment and a voice mail box he never returned to. I told myself he didn’t care. I told myself I was better off. I built a life on that lie. And now he’s back, and he’s staring at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from drowning.

I’m done with silence.

“Ten years,” I say, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. I don’t raise it. I don’t have to. The anger in it is a living thing. “You just vanish, Cole. You don’t call. You don’t write. You don’t even leave a fucking message. Do you have any idea what that does to a person? Do you?”

He doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, shoulders square, jaw set, rainwater tracing the old scars on his neck. The one on his knuckles. The one that pulls at his left eyebrow. The Marine still lives in his posture, but the man beneath him is cracking. I see it in the way his throat works when he swallows. In the way his eyes drop to my mouth, then back up to my eyes, dark and unreadable.

“I told you I’d leave you alone,” he says finally. His voice is gravel wrapped in velvet. Low. Rough. It still does something illegal to my pulse.

“You didn’t leave me,” I shoot back, stepping closer. My bare feet press into the cold floor. I’m wearing his old sweatshirt, the one he must have stolen back when he vanished, the one I kept hidden in the back of my closet for a decade. “You took me with you. You left me in the fucking dark.”

I grab the front of his wet jacket, fingers twisting in the heavy fabric. I pull him closer. He doesn’t resist. He lets me drag him until his chest is inches from mine. I can smell him. Rain. Gun oil. Sandalwood. The sharp, metallic tang of old blood he’s never quite washed off. My breath hitches. I hate that it does. I hate that my body remembers him before my mind can catch up.

“Look at me,” I command, voice shaking. “Tell me why. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why did you let me think you never loved me?”

His eyes darken. Something visceral flashes in them. Possessive. Feral. But underneath it, there’s a fracture. A wound I don’t recognize. He reaches up, his hand hovering near my face before he forces it back down. I see his knuckles whiten.

“You don’t want to know,” he says.

“I want it fucking clear,” I snarl. “I want the truth. Not your Marine bullshit. Not your silence. The truth.”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re glassy. Not with tears. He doesn’t cry. But the armor is gone. The mask is off. And what’s left is something raw. Something broken.

“My family isn’t who you thought they were,” he says quietly.

I blink. “What?”

He exhales, long and slow. “I told you they were in logistics. Private security. Contracts. I left out the parts that would’ve scared you.”

I grip his jacket tighter. “Cole.”

“They’re not a company, Emma. They’re a syndicate. Black ops. Off-book. Off-the-grid. My father built it. I was bred for it. At eighteen, I was in the Marine reserves as cover. As a way to keep my hands clean on paper. But I never stopped. I rose through the ranks. Cleaned up messes. Extracted targets. Made people disappear for men who don’t believe in mercy.” His voice drops lower. “When I turned twenty-two, they gave me a choice. Take over the eastern sector, or walk away. I chose to walk away. Not because I was tired. Because I met you.”

My chest tightens. The room feels like it’s shrinking. “You met me at a coffee shop. You bought me a latte. You remembered I take it black with two sugars.”

“You remembered I hate cinnamon,” he murmurs, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “You remembered I was allergic to penicillin. You remembered the way I hold my coffee cup. You were the first person who ever looked at me and saw a man, not a weapon.” He swallows hard. “They found out about you. Within a month. My father didn’t like it. Said attachment was a liability. Said you were a target. He gave me an ultimatum. Cut ties completely. Erase myself from your life. Or they’d come for you.”

The air leaves my lungs. I step back. My hands drop to my sides. “No.”

“Yes,” he says, voice hardening. “They didn’t threaten you directly. They didn’t have to. They sent me a photo. A snapshot of your building. The coffee shop you go to. The gym. The route you walk home. They said if I kept contacting you, they’d make sure you died painfully. And they meant it. My family doesn’t bluff.”

I shake my head. “You could’ve told me. We could’ve gone to the police. We could’ve left. We could’ve fought—”

“Fought who?” he snaps, the volume startling us both. He catches himself. Steps closer again. Lowers his voice. “Fought men who don’t leave bodies for the cops? Who don’t leave paper trails? Who own half the city’s law enforcement? You think I’d put you in the line of fire just to save my own conscience? I left, Emma. I left so they’d think you were dead to me. So they’d lose interest. I made it look like I chose money over you. Over us. I let you hate me because it was safer than letting them know you mattered.”

I press a hand to my mouth. My vision blurs. The truth hits me like a physical blow. The unexplained threats I brushed off. The strange cars parked outside my apartment. The way he used to check my locks, his hands trembling. The way he’d look at me like I was something fragile and precious. I thought it was just Cole. Just his intense, brooding nature. It was protection. It was devotion. It was a man carving out his own heart to keep me breathing.

“You watched me,” I whisper.

“Every night,” he admits. “For three years. Then I stopped. Couldn’t do it. Didn’t think I deserved it. But I never stopped knowing where you were. I made calls. Pulled strings. Kept your name off every list, every target board, every fucking dossier. When the syndicate fractured, when my father died in a ‘fishing accident,’ I walked away for good. Cleaned my record. Discharged honorable. Changed my name on paper. But I never stopped loving you.”

Tears spill over. Hot. Unstoppable. I don’t care. I’m trembling. “Why come back now?”

“Because I’m done running,” he says, voice rough. “Because I’ve been dreaming about you every night for a decade. Because I know where the bodies are buried. Because I know who’s still out there. And because I’d rather die trying to keep you safe than spend another second watching you from a distance.”

I reach for him. I don’t think. I just move. My hands slide up his chest, over the damp fabric, pressing against his bare skin beneath his open shirt. I feel the heat of him. The scars. The hard muscle. The rapid beat of his heart. He groans, low in his throat, and catches my wrists. Not to push me away. To hold me.

“Fuck, Emma,” he breathes. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Then do it,” I whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me against him, one arm locking around my waist, the other tangling in my hair. He kisses me like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding his breath for ten years and finally remembered how to exhale. His mouth is hard, demanding, but when my lips part, he softens. Just enough. Just for me. I taste rain and salt and something ancient and aching. My body arches into his. Every nerve ending screams. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed the weight of him. The way he fills a room. The way he fills me.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Tell me, and I walk out. I won’t touch you again.”

I grab his shirt and yank him back down. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He carries me to the couch. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to. I know his tells. The slight dip of his hips. The way his shoulders roll forward when he’s about to cross a line. I push him back against the cushions, straddle his lap, and grind down against him. He’s hard. So hard. He groans, hands gripping my thighs, fingers digging into my skin. I lean down, biting his jaw, feeling him shudder.

“Emma,” he gasps. “Christ, you’re killing me.”

“Good,” I murmur. “I need you. I need to know you’re real. I need to know you’re here.”

He flips us. In one smooth motion, I’m on my back, the cushions pressing into my spine, and he’s caging me in. His scars are stark against his pale skin. The one on his collarbone. The one that slices through his left pec. The faint white line along his ribs. I trace them with my fingers. He flinches. Not from pain. From feeling.

“You’re shaking,” I whisper.

“Ten years,” he rasps. “I watched you laugh. I watched you cry. I watched you live a life without me. And I did nothing. I told myself it was for you. But it was me. I was a coward. I was too fucking broken to believe you’d ever want me back.”

“I want you,” I say, sliding my hands up his chest, feeling his heart hammer against my palms. “I’ve always wanted you. Even when I was angry. Even when I hated you. Even when I tried to forget your name. I couldn’t. You were in my bones, Cole.”

He covers my mouth with his, kissing me like a prayer. His hands slide down my spine, gripping my ass, lifting me slightly. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. The wet clothes are a nuisance, so I push them off. His shirt. My sweatshirt. His jeans. My jeans. He kicks them away, never breaking contact. Skin meets skin. Heat meets heat. I gasp as he enters me. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and devastating.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough. “Don’t you dare look away.”

I don’t. I watch him watch me. Watch the way his jaw clenches. The way his throat works. The way his hands tremble as they grip my hips. He thrusts into me, just once. Just enough. I cry out. He stills. “Too fast?” he asks.

“No,” I breathe. “More. Please. I need you.”

He moves. Slow at first. Deep. Each thrust a confession. Each pull back a promise. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down. Our foreheads touch. Our breaths mingle. The friction is electric. The emotional weight is heavier. I’ve spent a decade mourning a ghost. Now he’s here. Solid. Scarred. Mine. And I’m his.

“Fuck,” he groans, head falling back. “You feel like heaven. Like home. I’ve dreamed about this. About your voice. Your taste. The way you look at me like I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not,” I whisper. “You’re the only thing that’s ever been real.”

He picks up the pace. Harder. Deeper. The couch creaks. The rain drums harder. I claw at his back, feeling the ridges of old scars, feeling the live muscle beneath. He groans again, lower this time. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect. I missed you. God, I missed you.”

“I’m here,” I gasp. “I’m not leaving.”

He flips us again. Pins me down. Drives into me with relentless precision. Each thrust hits a spot that makes me see stars. Each pull drags a sob from my throat. I’m unraveling. I’ve been holding it together for ten years, and he’s pulling the thread with every move. My nails dig into his shoulders. He groans, forehead pressed to mine. “Let go,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

I do. I shatter. I break open. My body convulses around him, waves of pleasure crashing through me, tearing something loose in my chest. I cry out his name. He follows me over the edge a second later, groaning my name like a vow, burying his face in my neck as he spills inside me. Hot. Deep. Claiming.

We stay like that. Breathing. Shaking. The rain keeps falling. The world keeps turning. But for a few minutes, there’s only him. Only me. Only the truth we’ve been running from.

He doesn’t pull out. He just holds me. One arm wrapped around my back. The other tangled in my hair. His lips press to my temple. His breath is uneven. His heart is still racing.

“I’m not leaving again,” he whispers against my skin. “Not ever. The past is dark, Emma. It’s bloody. It’s mine. But I’ll burn it to the ground before I let it touch you again. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”

I turn my head. Look at him. His eyes are raw. Vulnerable. The Marine is gone. The soldier is gone. All that’s left is Cole. Scarred. Possessive. Devoted. Me.

I kiss him. Slow. Soft. A promise. A pardon. A beginning.

“Then stop running,” I whisper. “Stay. Fight. Bleed. But stay.”

He presses his forehead to mine. Closes his eyes. Nods once.

Outside, the storm rages on. Inside, finally, we’re dry.