Chapter 175 The Only One Who Stays

Chapter 175 The Only One Who Stays
The silence in the penthouse was loud. It pressed against my ears, heavy and humming, like the air right before a thunderstorm hits.

Nate stood right in front of me. His chest was still moving too fast, his shoulders hunched, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. I looked down at his knuckles. A thin line of dried blood cut across his right hand, dark against his skin.

He didn't look like his mother. He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who had spent the last twenty minutes holding back a tidal wave with his bare hands, and now that the water had broken through, he didn't know what to do with the wreckage.

My stomach rolled.

The words he had thrown at me were still bouncing around in my head, over and over, stripping away every defense I had. Plain. Easy. A backup plan. A girl men use when they're bored.

I thought about Caleb sitting in that diner booth, smiling across the table at Eliza while he whispered poison about her to his friends. I thought about the way he had laughed, the way he had looked at us like we were toys he could pick up and drop whenever he got tired.

And then I thought about Gavin.

For weeks, Eliza and I had spent hours analyzing why Gavin left. We called it complicated. We called it a tragedy. We made excuses for him, telling ourselves that he was just a scared, broken boy who didn't know how to handle real feelings, wrapping his cowardice in noble, tragic poetry. He’s taking space, I had told Eliza. He’s protecting you.

It was bullshit.

Gavin didn't ghost Eliza because he cared too much. He ghosted her because he didn't care enough to have an honest conversation. He took the easy way out because walking away without an explanation meant he didn't have to look her in the eye and own up to what he was doing. It wasn't noble. It was just lazy, cowardly cruelty.

And Caleb? Caleb wasn't normal. It was all an act. It was just a mask he wore so girls like Eliza would lower their guard long enough for him to humiliate them behind their backs.

My chest felt hot, a sharp, angry burn pushing up behind my ribs.

I looked back at Nate.

He was still watching me, his jaw clenched, waiting for me to yell at him again, waiting for me to tell him he was a monster. He expected me to pull away. He expected me to look at him the way the rest of the world did—as a Salvatore, as a threat, as someone to fear.

Instead, for the first time all night, I actually saw him.

He didn't care about the elite. He didn't care about what looked good on paper or what society expected of a man with his last name. When he saw someone trying to tear Eliza down, he didn't write a polite text message. He didn't pretend it wasn't his problem. He didn't take the easy way out.

He burned the room down.

It was messy. It was brutal. It wasn't the kind of clean, polite heroism you see in movies. But it was real. He put himself in front of us and took the hit, carrying the anger and the chaos so we didn’t have to. While Gavin ran away and Caleb lied to our faces, Nate stayed.

He was the only man in either of our lives who actually valued the women around him enough to fight for them, even if it meant destroying everything to do it.

"Nate," I whispered.

My voice didn't shake. I reached out, my fingers brushing his wrist until I could wrap my hand around his.

"Your hand," I said quietly.

He looked down at his scraped knuckles. "It's fine."

"It's not fine."

I stepped closer, bringing my other hand up to trace his jaw. He flinched—just a fraction—as if expecting me to push him away. I pressed my palm flat against his rough cheek.

"Mila," he breathed, the name catching.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was wrong. I was scared, and I took it out on you. I compared you to her. And you're nothing like her."

Nate let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. The tension didn't leave him entirely, but the wall he had put up started to crack.

"I hated him," Nate muttered. "The way he talked about you. I wanted to put him through the wall."

"I know."

I stood on my tiptoes and pressed my mouth to his.

Nate made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, his hands coming up to grip my waist. His fingers dug into my hips with a fierce, punishing grip, as his mouth parted mine.

He backed me down the hallway until the edge of the mattress hit the back of my knees.

He didn't wait for me to sit. He shoved my sweater up over my head in one sharp tug, his palms rough against my bare ribs as he lifted me, setting me down right on the edge of the bed. I didn't lie back. Instead, I pulled him beside me and swung my legs wide, straddling his hips before he could drop his hands.

Nate’s breath hitched. His fingers clamped onto my hips hard enough to bruise. "Mila," he growled.

I leaned down, catching his mouth, tasting sweat and adrenaline. My hands tore at his shirt buttons until the fabric ripped free. He groaned, sliding his hands down to grip my thighs, lifting me just enough. I didn't wait. I sank, taking him all at once, a sharp gasp tearing out of my throat.

I grabbed a handful of his hair and began moving. I rode him hard, fast, my hips snapping down against his with a heavy slap of skin. Nate’s hands dug deeper into my flesh, his fingers biting into my skin.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hips bucking upward.

The bed frame banged against the wall. My breathing turned ragged, my thighs burning as the pressure in my lower stomach built into a white-hot knot.

My rhythm stuttered, my legs trembling violently as my first wave hit. I slumped forward, my arms weak. Nate felt the shift instantly. His hands gripped my waist, rolling me onto my back and pinning me to the mattress.

He caught my hips, his cadence turning brutal and relentless as he drove into me right through my climax. I stared up into his dark, dilated pupils as he hammered into me one last, punishing time. A hoarse cry ripped out of my chest, my legs locking tight as he spilled inside me.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breathing slowing until the room went still.