Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

“What?”

Her eyes are bleary, her voice soft and slurred.

“You don’t want me anymore. Although I don’t know that you ever really did.” She raises her arms and I help her out of the tub. She wobbles, then clings to me to steady herself.

“Is it because I’m so used?”

My gut clenches at the vulnerable sound of her voice, at her words, at the soft and sad expression in her eyes. Even though she’s drunk, maybe especially because she’s drunk, she’s a wide-open book.

“You’re not used,” I tell her firmly, as I pick her up back up in my arms. My knee protests, but I ignore it as I limp down the hall to the bedroom. “You’re not used.”

She rests her head against me, her arms slung around my neck.

“I am,” she whispers. “But I never wanted to be.”

I don’t bother putting a nightgown on her, instead, I carry her to bed naked. I nestle her into the sheets and sit on the side of the bed, resting my throbbing knee.

I thought she was going to pass out right away, but she opens her eyes again.

“Will you stay with me?”

I nod. “I’ll be right here.”

Her eyes flutter closed, her lashes a black fringe against her pale cheeks.

She’s so vulnerable, so soft and fragile. I can’t imagine anyone hurting her. I can’t imagine anyone rejecting her for things that happened out of her control.

“I do want you,” I whisper to her, my hand on hers. “I do.”

But she’s sleeping now, passed out and oblivious to the world’s ugliness and troubles. Her breathing is light and steady.

But I know there’s no way I’m going back to sleep.

Instead, I grab my laptop and I sit in the chair by the window. I promised her I would stay and so I will.

I punch the name into the search engine and read the multitude of articles that are returned.

William Shepard Greene II.

The oldest son of William Shepard Greene I, older brother of Maxwell. Heir to half of the Greene fortune when their father passed. He’s lauded highly in the business world, known for his keen instinct and sharp dealings.

He’s older than Maxwell by ten years. He’s sixty-two.

The mere idea of his hands on Nora turn my stomach and I glance at her again. She sleeps softly, curled onto her side, her hands by her face. She sighs in her sleep and my gut tightens again.

How dare he put his hands on her?

Why didn’t anyone stop it?

I already know the answer. Because business comes first in the Greene household. I saw that firsthand tonight. And Camille… she doesn’t give a fuck about the business, but she feels powerless to stop anything in that house. I can see that, too. Maxwell is the powerhouse in that family, and everyone else are his pawns.

Fucking rich people.

Rolling my eyes, I put the laptop away and crawl back into bed, careful not to disturb Nora. I pull her into my arms though, and keep her sprawled comfortably on my chest.

Here in the night, in this bedroom, there’s no one but her and me.

That’s how I want it to stay, although that very notion scares the shit out of me.