The Wildcard

Chapter Twenty Two

"Jodie... Jodie! Babe! Breathe...."

I heard his voice, somewhere in the midst of a black cloud of fear that had wrapped itself around me ... smothering me. I heard his voice and I clung to it, to him, to that deep musky scent of his neck as he nuzzled my face into it - his thickly muscled arms cocooning me into him - to the low timbres in my ear, and the edge of panic that crept through it. I could feel him ushering me backwards – far from the madding crowd if you will – sensed but never really understood the quieting hushed urgent whispers that had spurred my descent into turbulent panic. It had been so long since I'd felt this enveloped in fear – I hated her for bringing me this – hated her just as I hated myself.

While he was there – my brother – while he was touching me like he was – I never let myself feel it – kept it deep and buried far into the depths of me. I never wanted to face how weak I was, for allowing it to happen, or how dirty I must have been for my own brother to want to do that to me. When he was sentenced for it, though, I let my guard down; for a split second I thought that she might understand, that she might help me to understand, and that hope was enough for me to give in to that split second decision. She'd used it against me ever since – every fucking second that she could. And every single time that she looked at me, I felt it crash down around me all over again.

Slowly, I steeled my spine, pulled myself upright, my nerves dancing in protest for a second as that inevitably tore me away from the safety of his body. I needed desperately to pull myself together, though - he overcame me, absorbed me, and I couldn't allow myself that amount of weakness, not if my mother was around. He understood what I needed, though, ushering me down into a plush leather chesterfield - giving me at least the illusion of independence when I needed it most. Giving me the space to scream fuck in my head over and over, if nothing else.

Cayden's empathy in that moment was everything I needed – I met his ice blue eyes with those shaking breaths that scatter the sobs from your aching lungs and I closed my own to let his deep voice bring me back – to him, to now, to the pulsating need that webbed us together. He was a fairtytale prince charming wrapped up in an Armani suit.

"Breathe, baby," he murmured softly, a brief rasp of five o'clock shadow dusting my cheek as he pressed his lips to my skin, sodden as it was with tears I hadn't even known I was crying, "Want me to get you something?" I shook my head no, just be here, I pleaded with my sob stained expression, give me just one more moment. And he did – asking no questions, giving me no judgement or command – just holding my quivering fingertips between his own, and letting me leach off his strength and calmness like an insipid parasite.

I don't know how long we sat like that – how much power he let me pull from him – he never even shifted once – it was as though he knew exactly what I needed and was willing to let me take it no matter what it cost him in those moments of discomfort.

"Thank you," I whispered against his hand, like a grieving widow on her knees at the minister's altar, and I knew he didn't need to ask me why or for what, just kissing me softly in response – a kiss so different from all of those before. It wasn't passion and craving, like the rest, it was soft and gentle, and it said everything in that moment that I needed to hear.

He pulled his hand away, gently, just to separate us for a second, but my fingers clung to the familiar touch of his, and my eyes danced up to him in alarm, pleading with him not to leave me, "I'm just going to get you some water ... or vodka, whatever you prefer baby?"

"Water," I croaked out, my throat tight around ancient tears. He touched his lips to my forehead softly, and I watched his broad shoulders move towards the door tucked away on the opposite side of the room.

I didn't even know where we were, couldn't work out what part of the building he'd brought me to. The room was sparse – a few bloody expensive looking leather sofas and a granite worktop that probably cost more than my entire apartment, granted, but besides that it was a big old expansive emptiness holding nothing more than me, and my streaming tears. I didn't know where we were, what we were here for, or what the actual fuck my holier than thou mother was doing mere metres away from me. Had she known? Did she find me? She hadn't looked surprised – her expression never really changed ever – she was ice cold no matter the weather, but there wasn't even that general flicker of hatred that used to pass over those green eyes that I inherited.

There was nothing.

She'd known I would be there.

I tried to take deep breaths, to appease the rage and the panic as it closed up my throat – to let go of the fucking Lamborghini race of crazy thoughts as they crashed through my skull. It was worse than before – there was more at stake – more to lose – this was bigger than it had ever been before.

How did she know where I was even when I didn't? How did she always know the perfect moment – that one millisecond in time in which the mere sight of her would bring me to this?

She always knew when to strike, my mother; always knew my weakness even before I did, and it was then that I knew I had to go. I had to leave it all behind – the job, my home, my new self. I couldn't keep any of it, because the happy ending is just never for a girl like me.

I knew I couldn't have Cayden Gates – now or ever – because he was just simply too much to lose.

So before that beautiful man that promised to be everything I could ever need to save me walked back into that room with everything I needed to take me back to who I was not fifteen minutes before, I picked up my clutch and quietly slipped through the other door.