Broken play, p.23
Broken Play, page 23
KAEL: I’ll bring coffee.
KAEL: And gloves.
KAEL: You’ll freeze your hands off out there.
ME: Hands work fine.
KAEL: I’m coming anyway.
I huff a breath.
Almost a laugh.
Almost.
I pocket my phone and keep watching her window.
I picture her curled against Finn’s chest.
Breathing steadily.
Warm.
Safe.
She deserves all of that.
Even if I’m not the one giving it to her tonight.
Another car drives by. I shift my stance, scanning it automatically before looking back up at her window.
I whisper into the cold air, barely audible even to myself:
“You’re safe tonight.”
My breath clouds in front of me, then disperses.
“But if he comes near you again...”
The rest stays inside my chest.
It’s not a threat.
It’s a truth.
I’ll find Adrian Frost.
Before he finds her.
And I won’t be merciful.
Not even close.
Chapter 47: Wren
The first thing I register is noise.
Not loud, chaotic noise—just the kind a city makes when it thinks you aren’t listening.
A horn blaring from two blocks down.
The heater rattling like it’s trying to cough itself awake.
Footsteps in the hallway outside the apartment.
Someone laughing in the distance, maybe on the street, maybe in another building entirely.
I blink at the ceiling.
It’s not mine.
The room isn’t mine.
The smell isn’t mine.
The air isn’t mine.
It’s Finn’s.
Finn’s apartment.
Finn’s spare bedroom.
Finn’s sheets tangled around my legs.
And Finn’s arm—heavy, warm, absolutely not subtle—draped across my waist like he spent the whole night making sure I didn’t slip away.
My face floods with heat.
Right.
Last night.
I close my eyes and let the memories hit me in a slow, dizzying wave—his mouth on my throat, his hands sliding under my shirt, the soft, broken sounds he made against my skin, the way he looked at me like he couldn’t believe I wanted him back.
My stomach flips so hard I have to press my palm against it.
A soft exhale brushes the back of my neck.
Finn.
He’s still asleep—if you can call it sleep, because he’s wrapped around me like a seatbelt, forehead pressed to the space between my shoulder blades, his chest fitting perfectly against the curve of my spine. One of his legs is tangled with mine.
I’m pretty sure if I tried to escape, he’d instinctively drag me back without ever waking up.
I turn gently onto my back, and his arm slides with me, adjusting automatically. His face is inches from mine now—hair sticking up wildly, eyelashes dark against his cheek, mouth relaxed in a way I’ve never seen when he’s awake.
The intimacy of it—the vulnerability of seeing him like this—makes something deep inside me clench.
I shouldn’t stare.
But I do.
He’s beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with symmetry. Beautiful in the way he feels—warm, earnest, a mess of sunshine and nerves and quiet bravery he tries to hide with humor. Beautiful in the way he touched me last night, like he was terrified he’d hurt me but even more terrified he wouldn’t touch me enough.
I lift my hand slowly and brush a stray piece of hair away from his forehead.
He makes a small noise at the contact.
Then his eyes open—blue and groggy and unbearably soft.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
He blinks at me like he’s trying to make sure I’m real. “You’re still here.”
“Of course I’m still here.”
“Good,” he breathes, relief loosening every line of tension in his shoulders. “I wasn’t ready to be devastated before breakfast.”
I laugh under my breath. “Devastated?”
“Emotionally ruined. Heart shattered. You know. The usual.”
I nudge him gently with my knee. “I told you last night—none of that was a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, eyes dropping to my mouth, “but morning logic is different than nighttime logic. In the morning, people remember taxes and responsibilities and consequences.”
My cheeks warm. “I didn’t forget anything.”
He smiles—slow and warm and so sincere it knocks the breath out of me. “Good. Because if you regretted it, I’d... I don’t know. Move to the woods. Become a hermit. Grow a beard. Get a pet raccoon.”
I laugh before I can help it. “A raccoon?”
He shrugs lightly, the motion shifting the entire mattress. “Companionship, Wren. Emotional support trash animal.”
Another laugh escapes me, this one too loud. He grins proudly like making me laugh is a personal accomplishment.
Then the grin fades, replaced by something softer.
“Can I touch you?” he asks.
My heart stutters. “You’re already touching me.”
His thumb brushes my waist. “Not like that. I mean—can I really touch you?”
I swallow.
Then nod.
He shifts closer, cupping my cheek with a hand that’s both warm and hesitant. His thumb strokes lightly along my jaw. My breath catches.
“You okay?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
He leans in and kisses me.
Slow.
Barely-there.
Sweet enough to make my chest ache.
It’s nothing like last night’s heat. This is morning tenderness—soft lips, gentle hands, a kiss that feels like a question and an answer at the same time.
He pulls back just enough to study me.
“You’re still shaking,” he says quietly.
“No I’m not.”
“You are,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my jaw again. “But it’s okay. It’s normal. Yesterday was... a lot.”
“Yeah.” My voice cracks a little. “It was.”
He hesitates. “Do you... want to talk about it?”
Adrian.
The name tries to claw its way up my throat. I push it back down.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
“Okay.” Finn presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Then we won’t.”
His hand drifts to my waist again, fingers tracing gentle circles over the fabric of the shirt I borrowed last night—his shirt. It’s huge on me, soft and warm from the dryer, smelling faintly like his detergent and whatever cologne he uses that has no right to smell that good.
“How long have you been awake?” he asks.
“A few minutes.”
“You should’ve woken me.”
“You looked peaceful.”
He snorts. “I drool in my sleep.”
“You didn’t drool.”
“Tragic missed opportunity.”
I smile again—really smile—and the way Finn looks at me in that moment... it’s too much. Too open. Too honest. Too everything.
His hand slides up my side. “Can I kiss you again?”
I nod.
This kiss is deeper. His tongue sweeps against mine, slow and teasing, and the heat from last night flickers back to life under my skin. His hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me closer. His body presses flush to mine, and a soft sound escapes me.
He tenses for a moment—concern flashing in his eyes.
“Too much?” he whispers.
“Not enough.”
He groans, low and rough, and kisses me harder.
I roll onto my side, pulling him with me. His hands map my waist, my hips, my thighs with reverence. Last night’s urgency is gone—replaced by something more intimate, more deliberate, more consuming in its own way.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to breathe against my mouth.
“Wren...”
“Finn.”
He presses his forehead to mine, breath warm against my lips. “I’m trying really hard not to do stupid things.”
“What kind of stupid things?” I whisper.
“The kind where I tell you how badly I want you again,” he says, “even though you probably need water and a normal breakfast before anything else.”
Heat floods me so strongly I almost hide under the blanket.
I don’t.
“You can tell me,” I whisper.
He exhales a shaky laugh. “God, you’re gonna ruin me.”
Then he kisses my neck, slowly, dragging his mouth along the spot beneath my ear, down to my collarbone. My back arches involuntarily. His hand grips my hip.
And for a moment, it’s just us again—no danger, no fear, no Adrian, no cameras, no hallway shadows. Just Finn’s mouth on my skin and the way his voice breaks every time he says my name.
Eventually he pulls back, panting faintly, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
“I need a second,” he mutters. “Or we’re not leaving this room all day.”
I’m embarrassingly okay with that.
I slide my fingers through his hair gently. “Take your second.”
He inhales tightly and nods, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. His hair is a disaster, his chest rising fast, his shirt half-tucked and twisted—and somehow he’s never looked better.
He glances at me, cheeks flushed, eyes soft. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit.
He brightens. “Breakfast. I make good pancakes. Like really good. The best pancakes you’ve ever had or your money back.”
“You’re not charging me.”
“That’s because you haven’t tasted them yet.”
I laugh again, and he grins like he’s collected a prize.
He slides out of bed, tossing me the blanket I’d lost somewhere in the night. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
And before I can move or think or fall apart, he pads barefoot into the hallway, whistling under his breath like a man who’s had the best night of his life.
Maybe he has.
I sit there for a long moment after he leaves, hands fisted in the comforter, staring at the space he occupied a second ago.
I should be scared.
I should be overwhelmed.
I should be thinking about Kael, about Atlas, about Adrian, about the danger threading itself through my life like a fuse.
But right now, all I can think about is the way Finn looked at me.
The way he touched me.
The way he said my name like it mattered.
And the way it made me feel—
wanted,
safe,
alive.
For the first time in a long time, the fear doesn't win the morning.
Finn does.
Chapter 48: Atlas
Finn’s building is too bright in the morning.
Too warm.
Too... safe.
I hate how quickly I got used to the idea that she’d be here again tonight—layers of locks between her and whatever shadows Adrian Frost thinks he controls. I hate even more that the idea calmed something in my chest I didn’t want to name.
But the second Wren steps out of the bedroom wearing leggings and Finn’s stupid gray T-shirt, I know something’s different.
She isn’t soft.
Or hesitant.
Or looking for reassurance in the way she so often does without meaning to.
She’s resolved.
Her shoulders are squared.
Her chin is up.
Her eyes—usually so careful in the morning—are bright with something that looks like steel.
Kael sees it immediately.
Finn tries to pretend he doesn’t.
I don’t pretend anything.
We go through the logistics first—phones, locks, routes, coverage—but it feels like going through the motions. Wren absorbs the information, nods, asks smart questions. She tracks every detail like a medic with a test coming up.
But there’s a shift under her skin.
A decision.
A line.
It doesn’t hit until Finn slides a pancake in front of her and says, “Round two. Tonight we—”
She cuts him off without meaning to.
“I’m going home tonight.”
Everything stops.
Kael freezes mid-sip.
Finn’s spatula clatters against a plate.
I go still, the kind of still that comes right before a fight.
Wren swallows. “I need a night in my own place.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself.
She looks at me—steadily, directly. “Atlas.”
“No.” I repeat it slower, quieter, but even less negotiable.
Kael steps in carefully. “Wren. We talked about this. Being alone—”
“I’m not made of glass,” she says. “And I can’t spend the rest of my life... hiding. I need to go home. Just one night.”
Finn looks like someone just kicked him in the ribs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving anything,” she says. “I’m trying to live.”
Her voice cracks, just barely. She straightens before anyone can comment on it.
“I moved here for this job,” she continues. “For this team. For a life I want to build. My apartment is three blocks from the rink. It’s mine. I pay for it. I chose it. I sleep there. I shower there. I make coffee there. And I’m not letting Adrian Frost take that from me.”
The name hits the air and freezes it.
She rarely says it.
Never this calmly.
Kael sets his coffee down carefully. “Wren. We respect that. But we also can’t pretend we didn’t see what we saw in the footage.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I know what the footage looks like.”
“You know what he looks like,” I remind her.
She flinches. Barely. But enough.
I take a breath, fighting the instinct to move closer and to shut up at the same time.
Finn steps forward. “Just... stay one more night. At least tonight. Let’s regroup after practice tomorrow—”
“Finn,” she interrupts gently. “I love being here. I love being around you.”
He goes pink. She doesn’t notice.
“But I’m not staying here because I’m scared.”
“You’re not scared?” I ask, not because I don’t believe her—because fear looks different on her every day.
Her eyes meet mine. “I’m scared all the time.”
The truth of it hits hard enough to rock me.
“But,” she continues, “I’m also capable. And smart. And aware. And I know my building. And you checked it, Atlas. You cleared it.”
“I cleared it last night,” I say quietly. “Things change.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But I need to try.”
Kael crosses his arms. “We won’t allow—”
“I’m not asking permission,” she says.
Silence smothers the room.
Nobody breathes.
Nobody moves.
Wren swallows once. “I’m going home tonight. You can walk me in, if that makes you feel better. But after that... I need one night. One. In my bed. In my space. With my things. Without looking over my shoulder expecting someone to tell me I’m not allowed.”
Kael opens his mouth.
She holds up her hand, small but steady. “I’m not negotiating.”
Finn looks helpless. “We just want you safe.”
“I know,” she says softly. “And I love that about you. All of you. But safety doesn’t mean never being alone.”
I feel something deep and ugly twist in my gut.
Because she’s right.
And I hate that she’s right.
And I hate the part of me that wants to tell her she isn’t.
But I also know I can’t keep her under surveillance for the rest of her life. None of us can.
This isn’t about control.
It’s about fear.
And if I don’t manage my fear, it’ll crush her freedom. And then what? She’ll resent us. She’ll lose herself. She’ll become small. That’s not her. That’s not who we’re trying to protect.
Kael rakes a hand through his hair. “Wren...”
“I’m going home,” she repeats quietly. “Tonight.”
I lock eyes with her.
She doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t soften.
She doesn’t ask me to understand.
She just stands there, small and strong and stubborn and absolutely right, and something inside me... loosens.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Then we walk you home.”
She nods. “Okay.”
Finn swallows. “And you text us every hour.”
“No,” Kael says. “Every thirty minutes.”
Wren rolls her eyes. “That seems excessive.”
“You know what isn’t excessive?” I say, stepping closer. “Breathing.”
She exhales a shaky breath. “Atlas...”
“You text,” I insist. “Every thirty minutes. Pictures. Full timestamps.”
“I’m not sending timestamps like I’m testifying in court.”
“You are tonight.”
Her mouth twitches. She hates this. She understands it anyway.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Every thirty minutes.”
“And we walk you to the door,” Kael says.
“And check every room,” Finn adds, hope sparking in his eyes again.
I step closer. Her chin lifts automatically.
“And I’m keeping a truck outside,” I say. “Whole night.”
She stiffens. “Atlas...”
“I’m not asking permission,” I echo her earlier words back to her.
She nearly smiles. “Okay. But don’t freeze to death.”
I shrug. “Fine with me.”
She sighs, sinking onto the stool. “This isn’t how I meant this to go.”
“No shit,” Finn mutters.
She looks between all three of us. “I’m not trying to push you away.”
Kael leans against the counter. “We know.”
“I’m trying to push back the fear,” she says softly. “Just a little. Just enough to breathe.”
