Broken play, p.13
Broken Play, page 13
I whip around, breath catching, but it’s not the phone.
It’s the building’s front door intercom.
A red blink.
One short buzz.
Someone rang the wrong apartment, I tell myself. It happens. Neighbors forget numbers. Delivery drivers hit the wrong button.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
The buzzer doesn’t sound again.
But the fear stays lodged in my throat.
I go to the couch, grab the blanket, and wrap it tightly around myself. The air feels colder now. The room feels too big in some places, too small in others. I sit on the floor with my back to the couch, legs pulled tight to my chest.
My eyes burn.
I don’t want to cry.
I don’t want to be afraid.
I don’t want to give Adrian space in my head again.
I press my forehead to my knees, chest shaking with a breath I can’t swallow.
God, I wish one of them were here.
Finn, with his warmth and soft hands and the way he talks like he’s trying to build a room out of comfort.
Atlas, with his quiet gravity and the way he holds the world back with his shoulders.
Kael, with his calm, steady voice and the way he looks at problems like he can dismantle them piece by piece.
I shouldn’t need all three of them.
I shouldn’t want to.
But I do.
And the wanting feels terrifying in its own way.
I wipe my eyes fast and drag in a breath. It doesn’t settle the ache.
Another buzz.
This one is my phone.
Not the intercom.
My phone.
Except—
I turned it off.
I stare at the drawer on the entertainment stand where I shoved it before coming home. The faintest slice of light seeps through the seam.
It turned itself back on.
Or I didn’t hold the button long enough.
Or—
My stomach heaves.
I can’t do this alone.
I stand.
Stumble.
Grab the phone with shaking fingers. I want to throw it against the wall. Want to drop it in the sink and run water until it dies.
But I hold it.
I hold it... and I do the hardest thing I’ve done in years.
I say the one word I told the boys would be my signal.
“Hydrate,” I whisper into the empty room.
And then I press the power button again, holding it until the light dies.
My breath collapses out of me, a broken thing.
And before the fear can swallow me again, I grab my coat. My shoes. My bag.
I text the group chat Kael made earlier:
WREN: Coming over. Can someone meet me outside?
Three dots appear immediately.
KAEL: On my way.
A second set.
FINN: Leaving now.
A third.
ATLAS: Stay where I can see you.
My chest cracks open—relief, fear, something else I can’t name.
I lock the door behind me.
Walk down the hall.
Push open the building’s front door and step into the cold Boston night.
And for the first time all day...
I don’t feel alone.
Chapter 30: Atlas
I’m out the door before I finish reading her text.
Not walking.
Not jogging.
Running.
The kind of run that turns the city into a blur and my lungs into knives. The kind that makes pedestrians jump out of the way and swear under their breath. I don’t care.
All I see is one word.
Hydrate.
Finn told me what it meant earlier. One of her safety signals. A quiet alarm for get me out. The second I saw it in the thread, something in my chest detonated.
Wren needs us.
Needs me.
I cut through the parking lot, vault the rail instead of taking the stairs, and sprint across the sidewalk toward her building. Kael’s a block away. Finn is farther. I don’t have time to wait for either of them.
She is alone.
Outside.
At night.
Shaking.
I know she is. I feel it like a bruise in my ribs.
Her building comes into view, brick and old windows and the weak glow of an exterior light that hasn’t worked right since the day she moved in. I scan every shadow, every doorway, every car parked too close to the curb. My fists ball. My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches.
If he’s here—
If Adrian so much as breathes in her direction—
I’m done holding back.
Then I see her.
Small figure.
Arms wrapped around herself.
Standing under the crappy streetlight like she’s waiting for the world to make sense.
And something in me breaks.
“Wren.”
Her head snaps up.
Her breath leaves her in a visible cloud when she sees me. Relief hits her face first. Then something else—something that twists my heart in a way I’m not prepared for.
She moves toward me, but her knees wobble. I’m there in three steps, catching her elbows before she can fall.
“Hey,” I breathe, softer than I mean to, trying not to look like I’m dying inside. “I’m here.”
Her fingers curl in the front of my hoodie. Not pulling. Just holding. Like she doesn’t trust her hands to stay still.
“Atlas,” she whispers. And the way my name sounds from her mouth?
I’m toast. Done. Ruined.
“What happened?” I ask, scanning the street behind her, around her, through her. Looking for movement. Looking for anyone who doesn’t belong.
“No one’s here,” she says quickly, knowing exactly what I’m checking for. “I just... I couldn’t stay alone. Not tonight.”
A knot I didn’t know I had loosens in my chest.
“Good,” I say. “You shouldn’t.”
She exhales shakily, and I want to pull her into my arms, hold her so tight the shaking stops. But I remember the hallway. Her hesitation. The weight she carries around touch and danger and control.
“Can I—?” I start, lifting a hand slowly to give her the chance to say no.
She swallows. “Please.”
Permission hits me harder than a hit in the corner.
I wrap my arms around her, slow and careful, giving her every second to pull away. She doesn’t. Her forehead presses into my chest, breath trembling against me. I feel the moment she lets some of the fear bleed out, her body sagging into mine like she’s been standing too long on uneven ground.
“Jesus, Wren,” I murmur. “You’re freezing.”
She laughs a little, broken at the edges. “I rushed out.”
“You didn’t need to rush. I’d have come inside.”
“I know.” Her voice is quiet. “That’s why I rushed.”
Something warm flickers through me. I tighten my hold, just a fraction. Her hands slide to my waist, fingers gripping the fabric like she needs the texture to keep herself steady.
I bury my nose in her hair for one second—just one—and inhale. Shampoo. Cold air. Something soft and familiar I’m starting to crave.
The sound of footsteps hits my ears before I see anything. I turn my head, body tensing, ready to shield her.
But it’s Kael. Calm. Controlled. Eyes sharp.
He takes one look at us—her wrapped into me, my arms around her—and he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t comment. He just nods once, as if the world is exactly how he expected it to be.
“Good,” he says. “You got her.”
Yeah. I did.
Finn shows up half a minute later, breathless, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up in every direction like he sprinted here too. His eyes land on Wren, on the way she’s holding onto me, and something soft and warm passes through his expression.
He steps close and touches her shoulder gently. “You okay?”
She lifts her head from my chest. “Better.”
Better.
That damn word is going to kill me before anything else does.
Finn brushes her arm in silent solidarity. He doesn’t try to take her from me. He doesn’t need to. He’s just there, warm and open, the way he always is with her.
Kael folds his arms. “Let’s get inside.”
Wren hesitates. “Where?”
I don’t even have to think. “With us.”
Kael nods like that was his plan too. “We stick together tonight.”
Finn gives a small smile. “We already called it.”
Wren blinks at the three of us. “I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not,” Kael says.
“You’re not,” Finn echoes.
“You couldn’t be,” I tell her.
She looks overwhelmed. A little startled. Like she’s trying to figure out how she ended up with three hockey players forming a perimeter around her like she’s the only thing in the world worth guarding.
Maybe she is.
“Okay,” she whispers.
Kael leads the way to his SUV. Finn walks on her right. I stay on her left, half a step behind so I can see everything. Every shadow. Every doorway. Every car.
Wren notices, because she glances at me with this tired, grateful expression that hits me like a punch to the sternum.
“You don’t have to hover,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I do.”
She lets out a soft breath. “Okay.”
Finn opens the back door. She steps in. I slide in beside her without thinking. Finn gets in on the other side. Kael takes the driver’s seat.
It feels natural.
It feels wrong that it feels natural.
It feels right anyway.
Wren leans back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Exhaustion is all over her.
“How long has it been like this?” Kael asks, voice low from the front.
She hesitates. “A while.”
My throat tightens. “He’s been bothering you since you moved?”
“Longer,” she says.
Finn sighs softly. “She told me last night.”
Kael doesn’t react outwardly, but the shift in the air is unmistakable. Quiet. Sharp. Focused.
I lean forward slightly. “Wren.”
She opens her eyes.
“If he’s anywhere near here—if he tries anything—if he texts from a new number or shows up at work or you even think you see him—”
I stop because I don’t know how to finish the sentence without sounding like a threat.
Finn finishes it for me. “You tell us.”
Kael adds, “Immediately.”
Wren nods, small and unsure. “I will.”
Finn reaches across her legs and squeezes my knee lightly—a silent signal to breathe. I didn’t realize how hard my grip was on the seat.
Kael pulls away from the curb and drives us back to his place. Wren watches the city lights through the window. She relaxes incrementally, piece by piece, as the distance between her and her apartment grows.
When we pull into Kael’s garage, she doesn’t move right away.
“Wren?” I ask.
She turns to me. “Thank you.”
I don’t know what to do with the word. No one says it to me like that. Soft. Honest. Vulnerable.
I swallow. “Always.”
Finn smiles. “Every time.”
Kael glances back at her. “Go inside. We’ll take shifts.”
It’s practical. Steady. Safe.
And she nods like it’s the first time she’s been offered a real night of sleep in months.
When we step inside Kael’s apartment—quiet, dim, warm from the heating—it feels like stepping into a different world.
A world where she isn’t hunted.
A world where she isn’t alone.
A world where three men watch her shoulders drop and silently vow to keep them that way.
She looks around, wraps her arms around herself, and whispers, “I don’t know how to do this.”
I answer without thinking.
“We’ll teach you.”
She meets my eyes.
And for the first time, she doesn’t look scared.
Just held.
Just seen.
Just... safe.
Chapter 31: Wren
Kael’s apartment feels impossibly warm the second we step inside—low lighting, soft shadows, the faint scent of coffee in the air. My body doesn’t know what to do with the quiet. It’s too much. Too safe. Too unfamiliar.
I hover near the entryway, coat half-off, breath stuck somewhere too high in my chest. Finn gently closes the door behind us, like he’s afraid a loud sound will make me bolt.
Kael steps past me and turns on a single lamp, warm gold pooling across the living room. “You can take the bed,” he says, voice calm but soft enough I hear the effort behind it. “We’ll stay close.”
My stomach flips. Not fear. Something else.
Atlas glances down the hallway. “Which door?”
“Left,” Kael says.
Finn looks at me. “You ready?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
I nod anyway.
Finn guides me first. Not touching—just walking near enough that I feel the warmth of him at my back. Kael leads, slow enough that I don’t trip over my own nerves. Atlas brings up the rear like a wall that learned how to breathe.
Kael pushes open the bedroom door and steps aside so I can enter first.
The room is neat. Clean lines. Dark gray bedding. One soft lamp. Zero clutter. It smells like him—sharp, clean, a hint of something earthy that makes my pulse slip all over the place.
“You can change if you want.” Kael opens a drawer and pulls out a folded black t-shirt. “This should fit.”
Fit is a generous word. It’ll hang on me like a dress.
My cheeks warm. “Thank you.”
He sets it at the foot of the bed and steps back, but his eyes stay on me, steady and unreadable. “Do you need anything before you sleep?”
I want to say no. I want to be low-maintenance, easy, simple.
But my throat tightens instead.
“I... don’t want the door closed.”
Kael nods immediately. “It stays open.”
Finn adds, “And we’re staying.”
Atlas just stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight, and says, “No one’s leaving you.”
My chest stutters.
I take the shirt and slip into the bathroom to change. My fingers shake so hard I almost drop it twice. When I pull it on, the fabric falls to mid-thigh, soft and warm, smelling like Kael’s laundry soap.
When I step back into the bedroom, all three of them look at me at once.
It’s not sexual.
It’s not possessive.
It’s something heavier. More reverent.
Like they’re making sure I’m real.
Kael clears his throat and moves to the side of the bed. “Lie down. We’ll stay until you’re asleep.”
I swallow hard. “You don’t have to—”
“We want to,” Finn says gently.
Atlas doesn’t say anything. His eyes say enough.
I climb onto the bed and pull the blanket over myself, feeling small and oddly exposed even though not a single bit of skin shows beneath the fabric. The mattress dips slightly as I settle into the center.
Kael sits on the edge beside me, one knee on the bed, one foot planted on the floor. He doesn’t touch me. He simply waits, letting me choose.
I take his hand first.
I don’t plan to. My body just does it, reaching for him without my permission. His fingers fold around mine, large and warm.
A breath escapes me in a shaky rush.
“It’s okay,” Kael murmurs. “You’re okay.”
Finn moves next. He climbs onto the other side and sits cross-legged facing me, one hand resting near my thigh, palm up. Not touching unless I ask. But inviting.
I slide my free hand into his.
His thumb brushes my knuckles once—barely there, but enough to make heat coil low in my stomach.
Atlas hesitates the longest.
He stands at the foot of the bed, breathing like he’s trying to keep himself contained. His eyes meet mine and hold.
“Can I...” He stops, clears his throat. “Can I sit with you?”
My heart clenches. “Please.”
He exhales like he wasn’t sure I’d say yes. Then he steps forward and sits carefully by my feet, back against the wall, legs stretched long beside the bed. He looks like a silent sentinel—massive, warm, protective.
The room goes quiet.
Not heavy.
Not tense.
Different.
Like the air is thick with things none of us have words for yet.
Kael strokes his thumb over the back of my hand once, slow, gentle, grounding. “You’re safe.”
Finn shifts closer, his knee brushing the blanket near my hip. “We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere.”
Atlas rests one hand lightly on the blanket near my ankle. Not touching me—just making sure I feel him there. “Sleep,” he murmurs. “We’ve got you.”
My eyes sting. I blink fast. “Thank you.”
Finn’s voice softens even more. “You don’t have to thank us for caring.”
My breath hits a snag. “I’m not used to—”
“I know,” Kael says.
He doesn’t say how. He doesn’t push. He just squeezes my hand gently and waits for me to breathe again.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s warm. Full. Charged.
Sexual tension simmers under the softness—not demanding, not rushed. Just humming there, an electric awareness that has all three of them leaning ever so slightly closer.
Kael’s thumb keeps brushing mine, slow strokes that heat my skin.
Finn’s knee presses lightly against my thigh through the blanket, warm enough to make my breath hitch.
Atlas’s fingers twitch near my ankle like he’s resisting the urge to touch more, to shift closer, to gather me under the shelter of his body.
I shouldn’t want this.
Not now.
Not like this.
