Chapter 12

Chapter 12
Ashley
I walk—no, stumble—right past Gray like he's invisible, aiming for my front door with all the grace of a baby deer on roller skates. The world tilts sideways, and nausea licks up the back of my throat.
C'mon, bitch. Just make it to the bed, I chant, clutching my keys like they're the last lifeline on earth. My palms are sweaty, my fingers useless, and the damn things keep slipping. Trying to shove one into the lock feels like solving a Rubik's cube with oven mitts on.
I don't even hear him move—just feel it. The sudden heat at my back.
Then his hand closes over mine. Smooth. Steady. He plucks the keys right out of my grip like I'm some reckless kid who can't be trusted with sharp objects.
The metallic click of the lock echoes way too loud, way too easy.
My stomach twists. Not just from the liquor—but from him. From the fact that he's here, in my space, still lodged in my fucking heart no matter how many times I tell myself he shouldn't be.
Before I can decide whether to shove him back out the door or collapse right here on the floor, his big palm presses to the small of my back.
Firm. Unyielding. Bossy as hell.
"Inside," he mutters.
I stumble forward, the floor rolling under my heels.
Okay. Fine. Maybe I drank a little too much tonight.
My shoulder clips the wall, and I hiss through my teeth, fumbling for balance. Before I can hit the floor, his hand clamps around my elbow.
"Careful," he says, his voice tight.
Even through the tequila haze, I hear it—the bite, the rage simmering underneath.
Like he has any fucking right to be pissed with me.
I jerk my arm free, swaying hard but forcing myself to stand tall. "Y-You can go now," I slur, glaring at the blur of him. "Go back to the bitch you were too busy fuckin' all day to hit me back up."
His jaw locks. "You know I wasn't with anyone else, Ash."
I brace against the wall, dragging myself down the hallway in the dim spill of light. "Actually? I don't know shit. 'Cause the Grayson Bennett I know would use his big-boy words to tell me what's up instead of ghosting me."
I don't make it more than a few steps before his boots echo behind me. Then—bam—he's in my space again, crowding me against the wall.
"Move," I snap, though it comes out shaky and slurred.
He doesn't. Gray just plants one palm against the wall beside my head, boxing me in like he's made of stone.
A stone wall that radiates dominance. Sex. Danger.
I shove weakly at his chest, my balance shot. He catches me before I faceplant again, his arm banding around my waist like a steel trap.
"Let me go," I mumble, but even I don't sound convinced.
His grip only tightens. "You're drunk off your ass, little minx. You really think I'm leavin' you like this?"
"You didn't give a shit about me earlier," I slur back, the words bitter and ugly.
Because I can't hide it anymore—how much he hurt me. Not when I'm this gone. Not with him standing here when the ache of him not being here is still fresh.
He exhales hard through his nose, the sound rough enough to scrape. Then, without warning, he scoops me up into his arms like I weigh nothing.
I squeal, thrashing weakly against his chest. "Put me down, you asshole. I'm not some damsel in distress—"
"Stop fightin' me," he growls. "You're goin' to bed before you crack your damn skull open on the floor."
I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him.
And I don't know which part of me's gonna win tonight.
Gray hauls me down the hallway like I'm just a sack of potatoes, and I can't even lie—it turns me on.
Just a little.
Okay. Maybe a fuckin' lot.
But by the time he kicks my bedroom door open with his boot, the room's spinning harder than a tilt-a-whirl.
"Put me—" I start, but the second my back hits the mattress, my stomach lurches violently.
"Oh, fuck."
I slap a hand over my mouth, scramble up so fast my vision goes white, and stagger off the bed. I barely make it to the bathroom before I hit my knees in front of the toilet.
And everything I drank tonight? Yeah, it all comes back up.
Loud. Ugly. Violent. My throat's on fire, my eyes are leaking, and for a split second I'm like, you know what? Maybe I'm actually fucking dying right now.
Of course, that's when Gray decides he wants to walk in.
He doesn't say shit. Just crouches down, scoops my braids in one hand so they don't fall in the mess, and rubs the other slow up and down my back.
The kind of touch that's control and comfort rolled into one.
And I hate it. I hate that it makes me wanna melt right into his chest. I hate that part of me wants to cry just because he's here.
Another wave of nausea rips through me, and I gag, clutching the porcelain so hard my knuckles ache.
"I'm right here, little minx," he mutters, his voice lower now. Gentler. "Let it out."
"I hate you," I groan between ragged breaths.
And I mean it.
Because this is his fault. All of it.
I wouldn't have gone out. Wouldn't have downed half the tequila in the county. Wouldn't be on the bathroom floor right now if he hadn't made me feel like an afterthought.
"I know," he says simply. "And I deserve it."
The calm in his voice only pisses me off more.
When the last wave finally passes, I slump against the toilet, chest heaving, sweat plastering my shirt to my skin. My mouth now tastes like death and cheap liquor's ugly cousin, and I'm ninety-nine percent sure my eyeliner has migrated south.
Classy. Real classy.
Gray grabs a washcloth from the counter, runs it under cool water, and crouches back down. He wipes gently at my face like I'm something fragile.
And that's what kills me.
That softness.
It makes me angry almost as much as it makes me want to fall for him harder.
"Stop... bein' nice," I mutter, my words slurring into each other. My vision swims, my throat raw. "Don't... don't pretend I mean shit to you."
His hand stills, the washcloth hovering in midair. His eyes cut to mine, pinning me flat against the tile without even touching me.
"Don't pretend?" His voice drops lower, dangerous enough to make me shiver. "If you hadn't shown up here when you did, I would've had the entire clubhouse out lookin' for you. What you pulled tonight..." His jaw ticks hard. "That shit's dangerous, Ash."
My heart lurches, stumbling over itself.
Not because I don't have a comeback—God knows my mouth is never empty—but because the way he's looking at me steals the words right off my tongue.
Hazel eyes, sharp and burning, furious and terrified all at once.
Then he says it, the kind of truth that makes the room feel colder.
"If girls are goin' missing... young, vulnerable women will too."
My stomach flips. What? Girls are going missing?
The words rattle around my skull, but my brain's too fogged up to hold onto them. I blink at him, throat tight, trying to swallow down the nausea rising again.
"What... what the hell are you talking about?" I rasp.
For a beat, I swear he's gonna answer. His jaw works like he's chewing on the words, but then he shakes his head.
"Not tonight," he mutters.
Before I can protest, his arms are under me again, pulling me tight against his chest.
All I hear is a heartbeat—steady, pounding, too close.
Maybe it's his. Maybe it's mine.
Hell if I know.
At this point, I can barely even keep my eyes open.
"Gray," I murmur, the name slipping out more like a sigh than a word.
"Shh." His voice rumbles low, a command wrapped in comfort. "It's okay. Just rest."
He lowers me onto the mattress again, pulling the blanket up to my chest. My arms feel like overcooked noodles—too weak to even bother pushing it off.
I figure that's it. That he'll walk out and leave me drowning in everything unsaid.
But instead, he kicks off his boots, peels off his shirt, and slides in behind me. The mattress dips under his weight, heat rolling off him as he curls his body behind mine, wrapping me in a steady warmth I couldn't resist even if I tried.
I know he should be in the doghouse right now.
We still have a lot of shit to talk about.
But fuck. This feels... nice.
And I can always wait until I'm not hungover to cuss his ass out.
"I still hate you," I whisper, barely audible, wiggling my ass back against his crotch even as I burrow closer.
A low groan rumbles in his chest, vibrating against my back. His arm tightens around my waist, locking me in place.
"Good," he mutters, voice rough, hot against the shell of my ear. "You can hate me all you want. Long as you're safe."
The words should piss me off. Should relight that raging fire in my chest.
But instead, the fight bleeds right out of me.
Because the truth is, I don't hate him. Not even close.
I hate the silence. I hate the way he shuts me out. I hate that no matter how much I tell myself he'll never love me, some stupid part of me hopes I'm wrong.
And right now with the way he's holding me so close, like I actually mean something to him, I know I've stepped back into the trap I swore tonight I'd escape.
Tomorrow, I'll demand answers.
But tonight?
I let sleep drag me under—safe, furious, and hopelessly his all over again.