Chapter 170: Reid
Madeline is asleep on my chest now. Her breathing is slow, deep, steady—completely at odds with the way I feel under her. She’s still wearing only her dark blue lace panties. Everything else had been peeled off, and left somewhere between her wanting more and us having to stop.
Not because we didn’t want to keep going.
God, we wanted to.
But her ribs are bruised. She’s still sore. And more than anything, I want her to feel safe when we go there—completely safe, unbothered, and uninterrupted. Not halfway broken, not in a house full of people who might walk in or call out or knock on the door. That’s not how this starts.
So we stopped.
Eventually.
After she came undone in our hands, she was breathless and glowing, and the way she looked at me—at us—like she was asking, without words, for more... it nearly killed me to shake my head. We’d kissed her for a while after that. Slow, unhurried. Lips to lips. Lips to neck. To shoulders. Fingers through hair. Jake kissed her like he was calming her heartbeat. I kissed her like I was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth.
And then I told her to rest.
I combed my fingers through her hair, watched her blink slowly up at me with this soft, heavy-lidded look before she curled against my chest like she belonged there. Jake rubbed her back gently until she stilled, boneless and warm between us.
It took every ounce of restraint I had not to roll her onto her back and give her exactly what she wanted.
But we made the right call. Still hurts like hell.
Now, lying here in the dark, listening to the wind howl beyond the windows, I look down at her—peaceful, flushed, breathing deep—and murmur, “This is one of my favorite versions of her.”
Jake shifts beside us, one hand behind his head, the other still lazily dragging down her spine beneath the blanket. “Yeah?”
I nod. “When she’s like this. No tension anywhere. Just... soft.”
He’s quiet for a second. “I like the way she rambles when she’s nervous,” he says. “That thing she does with her hands when she’s trying to explain something too fast.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Or when she argues even though she knows she’s wrong. Just to see if she can win.”
He chuckles too. “And when she laughs so hard she covers her mouth but her whole face still crinkles.”
I glance over at him, and I know we’re thinking the same thing.
We’ve shared everything our whole lives. Bedrooms. Secrets. Fights. Wins. And yeah—women. Sometimes. For a night.
But this isn’t just another someone.
Jake voices it. “Never thought we’d share her.”
I exhale slowly. “Me neither.”
There’s a long pause. He turns his head on the pillow to look at me, his eyes catching what little light the storm gives us from the window. “You care what people will think?”
I shake my head. “I care if she’s happy. That’s it.”
He nods. “Same.”
Silence again. Just the wind and her breathing. And then—
“The way she looked earlier,” Jake murmurs, voice thick. “When she was coming apart under us… that’s definitely one of my favorite versions of her.”
I make a quiet sound of agreement. “Yeah. That was—” I stop, because I don’t have a word for it.
He doesn’t either, apparently. But we both fall into silence again, the kind that speaks for itself.
There’s so much I want to do. Not just to her. With her. I want to watch her fall asleep like this every night. I want to see what she looks like first thing in the morning. I want to hear her voice when she’s still half-asleep and kissing my jaw.
I glance down again. She shifts just a little in her sleep, pressing her cheek tighter against my chest, and I wrap my arm tighter around her.
Jake notices. “You’re not letting her go anytime soon, are you?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Never.”
Jake lets out a quiet chuckle—one of those short, breathy ones that means he’s trying to distract himself from the ache still lingering in the room. Then he shifts out of bed.
I glance up as he walks barefoot across the room, the soft rustle of the blanket sliding off him the only sound besides the storm outside.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Getting more covers,” he mutters, already pulling a thick one from the closet. “She’s got nothing on but those little lace things, and there’s still no heater. If it drops a few degrees in here, she’ll freeze.”
I watch him move—methodical, quiet, careful. It's second nature now, how we take care of her. How we make space for her. How we adjust every instinct to orbit around her.
He comes back, tosses the blanket gently over us, then slides in behind her on the other side. Now she’s tucked between us again, her bare legs brushing his, her chest still against mine. Jake’s arm drapes over her hips, not possessive, just there, warm and solid and present.
We lie like that for a while. Silent. Listening to the howling wind beyond the windows. The occasional crack of a tree branch in the distance. The storm’s calmed a little, but it’s not over.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through the quiet. Low. Rough. Careful.
“You buy that story about her hitting Finn ‘cause she was scared?”
I don’t answer right away.
I shift just enough to glance at her face—pressed against me, lashes resting on her cheeks, her mouth barely parted. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way I don’t take for granted.
“I mean…” I start slowly, “I don’t see what else it could’ve been. She’s not the kind of girl who lashes out unless she really thinks she needs to.”
Jake exhales, and I feel it behind her. “You think Finn tried something?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t.”
He nods. “Me neither.”
Then a pause. A longer one this time.
“I just…” Jake sighs, and I know that tone. He’s not sure if he wants to say it, but he will. He always does. “I just keep thinking about the way you said she froze when Mrs. Carver came by. Or that day she got the call from that unknown number—how her whole body locked up, like her brain was somewhere else. Or even when she thought someone was breaking into the SWMRI house. That… full-blown panic.”
I go quiet again. Because I hadn’t been thinking about that. I hadn’t let myself.
But now that he says it...
Yeah. That kind of fear? It doesn't come from nothing.
It’s not just being jumpy. It’s something learned. Something carved into you. Something that taught her to brace, to flinch, to fight.
“I hope it has nothing to do with that,” I finally say, and my voice comes out a little tighter than I meant it to. “God, I hope not.”
Because if that’s what happened in her past—if something as big as someone attacking her happened—then we haven’t even scratched the surface of how badly she’s been hurt. And I can’t stand the idea that she’s been walking around with that kind of fear tangled up inside her.
Jake presses in closer behind her. I shift her slightly, gently, just to make sure she’s not sandwiched too hard between us. She lets out a sleepy noise but doesn’t wake.
“She didn’t say anything,” Jake murmurs, more to himself.
“No,” I say. “But maybe she doesn’t know how. Or maybe she’s scared we won’t want her if we know.”
Jake’s hand flexes over her hip. I pull the blanket up higher over her bare shoulder.
We’re both quiet again, but I know we’re thinking the same thing.
She doesn’t have to say it.
We see it anyway.
So we both hold her tighter. Just in case.