Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Grayson

Before Ashley even stirs, I slip out of her bed. The sheets are still warm from her. The pillows hold the scent of tequila, perfume and something softer underneath. Dangerous as hell.

I dig through her bathroom cabinet until I find aspirin. The bottle rattles too loud in the quiet, like it's accusing me.

In the kitchen, I fill a glass with cold water and bring both back, setting them on the nightstand—a peace offering that doesn't even scratch the surface of how badly I fucked up.

The room's still dark. I tug the blackout curtains tighter so the sun won't stab through her skull when she wakes. After the way she drank last night, she's gonna have the worst hangover of the century.

This is all my fault.

I pushed her there. Ignored her calls. Let her believe she was nothing but a distraction—good pussy I could pick up and drop whenever I wanted. For a while I let myself believe it too.

Pretended I didn't feel anything.

Pretended I didn't need her when the cravings hit.

Pretended I could keep her at arm's length and still breathe.

But lies don't stick. Not for long.

The longer I shut her out yesterday, the faster the spiral dragged me under. Old ghosts kept showing up uninvited—my father's voice, cages buried in concrete, the blood on my hands the night I pulled the trigger.

Shit that wouldn't stay buried.

It doesn't help that War still hasn't given me a name.

That silence is its own kind of warning. Whoever's behind this new ring isn't sloppy. He's patient. Careful. The kind of patience that doesn't just chase money—it builds empires.

Thoughts like that kept me up all goddamn night.

By the time I finally caved and reached for my phone, Ashley wasn't answering. And yeah—they say your own medicine tastes bitter. Mine burned like fuckin' acid.

So I rode out. Pulled up to her place at two in the morning. Found it empty.

The sight hit like a freight train.

Her car wasn't in the driveway. Lights off. House quiet.

Every worst-case scenario looped through my head at once—Ashley passed out in some stranger's bed, Ashley drunk and stumbling into the wrong crowd, Ashley getting into the wrong car and being taken.

My chest locked up so hard it felt like I'd swallowed a brick.

She could've been gone forever.

And it would've been on me.

While I was busy convincing myself she didn't matter, she was out there—one bad decision from becoming the next body on a list I swore I'd erase.

And for what? To prove I'm in control? To punish her for getting too close? All I did was shove her toward danger and call it protection.

Stupid. Weak. Just like Jax.

He kept Mom at arm's length until she broke. I did the same to Christine and it drove her out the door. Now I'm steering Ashley down the same road, pretending this time it'll end different.

Pretending I'm not turning into the one man I promised I'd never be.

I slide back into the bed and pull Ashley against my chest. She stirs—soft, restless—mumbles something I can't make out and melts back into me.

Her body fits. Like it was made for this. Made to be mine.

I let my hand drift down, fingers tracing the curve of her hip. The small, ordinary touch opens something raw inside me.

Ashley's warm in all the ways that matter. Christine was armor—cold, hard, never letting me inside.

Not that I gave her a reason to.

I told myself I could live with the distance. Said marriage was a compromise. Settling. Doing the right thing even if it costs you.

Lying here now, I know better.

Ashley doesn't keep me out. She lets me close—even when she swears she hates me. Especially then. Her fire cuts through everything and drags up the parts of me I tried to bury once I became president.

And I can't decide if that makes her my salvation... or the most dangerous addiction I've ever had.

I want her the way a drowning man wants air—desperate, selfish, willing to claw through anything that stands in the way.

Last night made it clear. Letting her go isn't an option.

So I give in.

I press my face into her hair and breathe. My hand cups her hip and slides lower, my thumb grazing the smooth skin where her shirt's ridden up.

The little moan she makes in her sleep nearly undoes me.

For a beat, the ghosts fall into the corner of my head and I let myself pretend they're gone.

That unfamiliar peace washes over me—like it does every time I'm with her.

"You're mine now, little minx," I whisper, low and rough.

She answers with a soft, sleepy murmur. Her ass wiggles against my crotch, a small, involuntary motion that sends my blood roaring with need.

A low sound rips out of me—half laugh, half animal. I press my hand firmly to the small of her back, holding her where she is.

Everything in me wants to take her right now. Fuck the fallout. It's not like she'd protest, but I know we need to talk about what happened.

I need to say the things I've been holding back.

Prove I can be different.

So I slow my hands. Breathe. Stay.

She finally wakes up, groaning, the kind of sound that says her skull's on fire.

"Fuck," she rasps, throwing the blanket over her face.

"Tylenol on the dresser. Take it," I order, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She groans again, like even the thought of moving is torture. "You get it."

I lean closer, my mouth at her ear. "Not how this works, little minx. You want your head to stop pounding? Sit up and take the damn pills."

She shifts under the blanket, muttering curses at me and the universe. Eventually an arm snakes out—first for the pills, then the water.

I hear her swallow followed by the clink of glass on wood when she sets it back down. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, just lets her arm drop limply over the edge of the bed like the effort nearly killed her.

"Good girl," I murmur, brushing her braids aside to kiss the side of her neck.

"Don't think I'm still not pissed at you," she snaps, muffled but sharp.

I smirk against her skin, letting my lips linger just long enough to make her shiver. "I know. Let me make it up to you."

I don't grovel—but I will today.

"How?" she whispers. Part dare. Part plea.

Slow and careful, not to aggravate her hangover more, I shift her onto her back, sliding the blanket up enough just to bare her thighs.

She tries to glare, but the look is paper thin—lashes heavy, lips parted. She's fragile and fierce in the same breath. It fucks with me.

My fingers find her hip and slide lower, mapping the familiar curve. "You don't have to move. Don't have to do a thing," I say, kissing her flat stomach. "Just let me taste you."

Her breath hitches, but she doesn't say a word.

Just lets me peel her panties down—slowly, like I'm opening a present just for me.

I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, then the hollow of her thigh, dragging each motion until her hips twitch. She bucks once, and I let out a low chuckle. "Relax. I won't tease you."

At least, not that much.

Her groan this time isn't from the hangover. It's something deeper—a primal need bleeding through her anger. I hook my hands under her silky thighs and settle between them like I belong there.

She's already soaked, arousal making her pussy glisten. I drag my tongue up her slit, slow and deliberate. She gasps, the noise breaking in her throat, and her fingers immediately find my hair.

"Fuck..." she breathes.

I hum against her, savoring the taste. Every stroke is measured, meant to cut clean through the fog in her head. Her thighs flex around my shoulders, not to push me away but to pull me closer. She keeps me exactly where she wants me.

I flatten my tongue and work her, teasing circles, long strokes. The hangover makes her sensitive in all the right ways, every touch landing harder. Her fingers tighten in my hair, more deep moans pouring out of her mouth.

I angle my head, hunting her clit with the tip of my tongue until her hips jerk off the mattress.

"I...hate you," she whispers, her voice strained.

I grin against her and suck her clit into my mouth, deep and patient. No mercy. No pause. Her hips try to wiggle free, but I pin them down with my forearms.

"Liar," I murmur, voice husky, and curl two fingers inside her. I match their rhythm to my tongue—slow, then fast, then a steady fucking tempo that makes the bed sing.

She whimpers, then moans, then loses control. Her head thrashes. Her body tenses like it's holding onto the world by a thread. I find that spot and press, fingers angling to pull the tremors out of her.

And then she shatters for me.

"Gray," she cries out, her thighs clamping tight around my head as her back arches. I ride it out with her, my hands and mouth working in tandem to keep her under until she's twitching and gasping.

Only then do I lift my head. I lick her juices off my lips and smirk, because the sight of her wrecked like this is mine and I fucking love it.

"You good, sweetheart?" I tease.

"Fuck you," she mutters, turning to bury her face in the pillow.

"Later." I smack her ass lightly. "Recover first."

She lets out an exaggerated huff. "Still pissed at you," she tells me, softer now, almost drowsy.

I slide an arm around her waist and pull her until there's no space left between us. "Good," I rasp. "Means I get another chance to make it right."

"You'll need more than good head for that."

"Not a problem. I've got good dick too." I press my mouth to the curve of her neck. Even with her face buried in the pillow, I hear the laugh she tries to smother.

"Cocky motherfucker," she mutters, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she grinds back, my cock hard as stone against her ass.

"Confident," I correct, my lips grazing the hollow of her throat. "There's a difference, little minx."

She hums, the sound low, teasing. "Maybe you can remind me how good it is."

My cock twitches, answering before I do.

Seems she doesn't wanna talk. She wants to be fucked back to life.

Fine by me.

I strip off my boxers without a word and drive into her—hard, claiming. One brutal thrust and the world narrows to skin and sound.

Every nerve snaps awake. My body moves like it always does—hungry, savage, looking for the only thing that quiets the ghosts.

I fold over her, breathing hard, and ride it out—hoping this is the first step toward earning her forgiveness.

And if it isn't?

I'll do it over and over until she's sure I won't risk losing her again.