Chapter 85 Garrett
Author's Note: Just a kind reminder that this chapter contains material that could be triggering for some readers. Please review the trigger warnings described in chapter one and read with caution. Your mental health matters. ❤️
Garrett
What the hell was my problem?
In the same field where I’d told him just days ago that I needed nothing more, I was now standing there implying he was the one who did it for me.
Even if he fucking was, I shouldn’t have said it to his face. I definitely shouldn’t have tried to drag the same confession out of him. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have been standing an inch from him in the middle of an open field like some unhinged idiot.
Too many goddamn mistakes.
But I had been holding it together for weeks, swallowing everything, locking it down, and playing the part exactly the way they wanted me to. And today—today had taken something out of me.
My evaluation with Graves.
I was still shaken by it. And somehow… relieved too.
That was the worst part.
That morning, I had walked into Spring Creek already knowing what was expected of me.
The routine hadn’t changed, not really. Assessment first. Questions. Monitoring. The fucking machine tracking every reaction, like my body wasn’t even mine anymore.
But this time, I was ready.
I had been working on this for weeks.
Every answer was clean. Controlled. Rehearsed.
No wrongdoing.
No contact with Aslan since the last incident—which Graves praised like I’d just earned a medal.
No inappropriate interactions. No “slip-ups.” No cutting. No loss of control.
Just discipline. Structure. Progress.
My journals were complete. My behavior aligned. My “safe” relationship, fully intact.
Perfect fucking patient.
I had even worked out a believable response in my mind to the emotion and feelings shit he pulled every week.
If I had any feelings at all, I told myself, I wouldn’t have hurt him. I wouldn’t have bullied him… I wouldn’t have walked away.
Graves seemed pleased with my general progress during assessment. Next came the questions.
“Are you physically attracted to males?”
Easy.
I latched onto the one truth that worked in my favor—since Aslan, I hadn’t felt anything for anyone else. Male or female.
Nothing.
“No, sir.”
Images flashed across the screen.
Young men in the sun. Shirtless. Laughing.
Nothing.
Good.
“Do you feel a physical attraction for Aslan Rivers?”
That one was usually harder.
I had nothing clean to grab onto, so I forced it. Twisted it. I imagined him with someone else. Someone else’s hands on him.
It hit wrong. Sharp. Immediate.
Repulsion.
“No, sir.”
The green line flickered anyway.
Fuck.
More images.
Aslan in his uniform. My heart rate stayed still. Controlled. I knew this one. I held steady.
Then, casual ones. Smiling. Gym pictures. Everyday shit. His entire Facebook profile on display.
I regulated my breathing. Slowed my pulse. Just like I’d trained for four weeks straight under pressure that never let up.
Then the beach. Last summer.
Shirtless. Sun on his skin.
My pulse ticked up, but I kept it contained. Detached it. Broke it down into nothing but shapes, movement, background noise.
Water. Waves. Birds.
Nothing more.
Controlled.
I almost felt it—pride. Like I was finally winning.
Then the slide changed.
Wrestling.
Our match.
What the fucking fuck?
Our bodies locked together. Sweat. Heat. Skin against skin. His arms around me, my grip on him, our legs tangled, breath mixing—
Graves, you motherfucker.
My heart rate spiked. Of course it did. But I held it.
It meant nothing.
It was nothing.
Hold every thought captive.
In. Out.
Control it.
He’s just another guy. Flawed. My fucking downfall.
Nothing to me.
The line trembled. Then slowly—
Stabilized.
I had it.
I fucking had it.
Until I felt him move.
Graves stepped behind me.
Close enough that I could feel his presence without seeing him. Close enough that his voice dropped right into my ear.
“Focus,” he murmured.
My jaw tightened.
“You remember how that felt, don’t you?”
I said nothing.
“His body against yours. The contact. The pressure.”
My pulse twitched.
“Stay in control, Garrett.”
Another image flashed.
Same moment. Closer now.
Too close.
“His skin,” Graves continued softly. “His breath. The way you moved together.”
My hands clenched at my sides.
Don’t react.
“Fight it.”
My chest tightened.
“Control it.”
I forced my breathing to slow, dragging each inhale deeper than the last, locking every reaction down like I’d been trained to do.
But my body remembered...
The weight of him.
The heat.
The way everything had narrowed down to just that contact, that pull, that—
No.
Shut it down.
It’s nothing.
It means nothing.
Just another guy.
Just another body.
I repeated it over and over, forcing the thought into place, crushing everything else beneath it.
The line spiked. Then dipped. Spiked again.
I forced it down.
Harder. Slower.
Control.
Control.
Control.
The machine steadied.
And I held it there… until his hand wrapped around my waist.
His touch was a slow, possessive burn through the thin fabric of my shirt. My entire body went rigid. The line on the monitor jumped, a frantic, jagged spike of red against the green.
“Easy,” Graves murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Stay with me, Garrett. Remember what I said. Control.”
His other hand came to rest on my hip, holding me in place. I could feel the solid wall of his chest against my back. It wasn't Aslan. I forced the thought to the front of my mind, a shield against the invasion. This was Graves. This was a test. A violation.
“He was so close to you,” he whispered, his voice a low, hypnotic poison. “Look at him, feel those thighs around yours. The pressure.”
My pulse twitched, a traitor’s beat against my throat. The machine beeped, a soft, insistent warning.
“Stay in control,” he ordered, his hand sliding slowly, so slowly, from my waist to my stomach. His fingers splayed wide, pressing flat against my abs. “Your body remembers the heat. The strength. It wants to go back there.”
An unwanted warmth stirred low in my gut, a treacherous echo of the memory. The line on the screen flickered, then climbed. I gritted my teeth, focusing on the cold hatred I felt for the man behind me.
This isn’t him. This isn’t the memory. This is Graves. Graves touching me.
“I fought him. I didn't react to him.” I ground out the words, tasting like ash.
“No,” Graves agreed, his hand dipping lower, tracing the skin just above my waistband. “You did react. Your body reacted to his hands on you, to those eyes fixed on you. ”
His eyes… They had haunted me since.
And then his hand slid inside my pants.
“Your cock brushing against his. His sweat, his scent rubbing in your skin…” His fingers were cool against my heated skin, a direct, shocking jolt. I gasped, my hips jerking forward instinctively. The machine shrieked, the red line shooting up, a damning peak of arousal.
“See?” Graves’s voice was dark with satisfaction. “Your body wants it. It wants him.”
He wrapped his hand around me, and I choked back a groan, my head falling back against his shoulder. My mind was screaming, a war of revulsion and traitorous pleasure. This was everything I’d been fighting, everything I was trying to deny, laid bare on a fucking screen for my worst enemy to see.
“Imagine it’s him,” Graves whispered, his grip tightening, beginning to stroke me slowly. “Imagine it’s Aslan’s hand on you. Tell me you don’t want it. Tell the machine you don’t want it.”
I fucking wanted it… wanted it so bad it hurt.
I wanted my lion, his hands, his mouth… But this wasn't him.
My mind flashed with an image—not of Aslan, but of Graves’s smug, triumphant face. Of him watching me break. Of him winning.
This wasn’t about a memory. This was about him. This was his hand on me. His breath on my neck. The thought was so repulsive, so vile, that it cut through the haze of arousal like ice.
Use it. Use it… Use the very man who's destroying the only thing that's real to get it back… to get him back.