Page 6 of Piece Us Together

I turn back to the bacon. It’s burning, black smoke curling into the air. I pretend the frustration from that is what makes my chest feel unbearably heavy.

Carter follows me to the corner of the kitchen where the trash is, his gaze prickling and accusing as I dump the food and head back to the stove to try again. My hand shakes as I drop a few more slices into the sizzling pan.

“Wait, are you not trying it?” Carter whispers. “I thought…”

“I don’t know why he talked to you about that a week ago. We agreed that we’d stop trying. It’s not what either of us wants. We haven’t even talked about it since moving here. I told him I don’t need it.”

He frowns, and I know without having to ask that he’s thinking about the night we sat together in front of the fireplace, admitting to the things we want. The things we thought we mightneed. “But you told me—”

“No.” I poke at the bacon. I can’t look at him. I’ll cry if I do. “I was wrong. What I said—I was wrong. Maison is enough, just how he is. More than enough.”

“Nolan—”

“Help yourself to the bacon,” I mumble, turning the burner off. This round isn’t even half-cooked, but there’s plenty finished on the plate he’s been stealing from. “I—uh. I need to shower. I’ve got grease all over me.”

He doesn’t stop me, but I hear a sad sigh escape him as I walk away. I try my best to ignore it as I hurry upstairs, my chest aching worse with each step closer to the man waiting for me in our room.

I was telling the truth with Carter—Maison did get in late last night. He had snuck in, kissing my temple in the dark before settling beside me and whispering, “Get some sleep, baby.”

It was still dark when I woke up again, Maison fast asleep beside me. I snuck out to try and expend some energy by cooking. It was going fine, until Carter showed up to dump a million worries onto my shoulders.

Maison told me last night that he was going toscope thingsoutin town. I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t.Was he really even in town, or was he meeting with Keats? Is he going to need to meet with Jake and Travis too today? Is whatever this is dangerous?

And what was he doing talking to Carter about kink? I thought we agreed to let that go?

Things only get worse when I sneak into the bedroom to find the morning light casting over his body. The sight is like a knife to the gut.

He fell asleep in his jeans and hooded sweatshirt, but that’s not rare, especially if it was a rough night. Usually rough nights mean he works until he nearly drops, barely managing to crawl to bed before his body gives out. It seems to help him when he can shut his mind off on the bad days, throwing himself into tying up loose ends and tracking down slaves that Travis documented over the years so he can save them too. It’s not healthy, though, something I’ve been trying to get him to accept.

It’s not the sweatshirt and jeans—or what they might hint at—that are the knife to the gut, though.

It’s the white gauze wrapped around his hand, a little red peeking through the material along his knuckles where bloodsoaked through. The sight weakens my knees, tears stinging my eyes. He hasn’t made his hands bleed in a long time.

What happened? Was he just scoping out the town like he said? Did he get into a fight while out? Was he with Keats? Was he doing something dangerous?

Or is this like before, at the safehouse? Did he hurt himself? If he did, why? Does it have to do with the kink thing? Why wouldn’t he tell me he was still thinking about it? Why wouldn’t he come to me about anything bothering him?We agreed to let that go for this exact reason.Why would he say otherwise to Carter?

Maison stirs despite me not moving or making any noise, as if his Nolan-radar went off to alert him that I’m in distress. I would smile at the thought if I didn’t have worry and guilt waging war in my chest.Did he hurt himself because of me?

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice still hoarse with sleep. He reaches toward me with his uninjured hand. It’s a clear request. I stumble forward, heart in my throat, until I’m settled on the edge of the mattress. He shifts closer, pressing a hand to my cheek. “Baby? Is something wrong?”

“I—” I stop when I realize a sob is about to bubble up my throat, taking a moment to try to breathe.

It doesn’t work.

He pulls me into his chest and holds me as I cry. I’m furious with myself, wanting to be strong for him since he’s obviously the one hurting right now, but that fury only makes me cry harder.God, I’m such a fucking mess.

I decide to let my emotions play out, knowing I won’t be able to communicate with him until they’re handled anyway. Once I’ve cried myself into exhaustion, nothing left but hitched breaths and tired eyes, I sink harder against him and ask, “What happened to your hand?”

He tenses before releasing a sigh. “It was a mistake. I wasn’t thinking.”

“What happened?” I ask again, this time pulling out of his arms so I can look at him.

He flinches when our eyes meet, but he doesn’t look away. “I punched a building.”

The words hurt, almost like they slammed me against the same structure his fist hit. I have to press my hand to my chest to keep the ache at bay. “Mais…”

“I know.” He closes his eyes, his chin dipping toward his chest. “I’m sorry.”