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Casey jolts back a step. “Y-you’re just letting him go?”
“No. No, Casey.” I stand right back up, reaching for him. I brace myself for the boy to pull away. Instead, he steps into me, grabbing the front of my shirt and clinging. I cup his cheeks, ignoring the tiny voice in my head that’s begging me to press our lips together. So. Not. The. Time. “I’m going to take him out myself.”
Wet blue eyes snap up to meet my gaze. “You?”
“Yes. After what that fucker did to you? He’s mine. I’m just waiting to get cleared.” I pause, realizing how incredibly selfish that is once I've heard the words out loud. “I’m sorry. He’s - he’s yours, not mine. I should have actually asked you what you wanted me to do with him…”
“Kill him,” Casey says immediately. “Slowly. Painfully. I - I want you to rip him apart, Jake.”
I nod. Easy. “I will.”
“And his men. All of his fucking men. I want them to hurt, Jake.”
“They will,” I promise. I wrap my arms around Casey and pull him in for a hug, frowning when I feel how hard the boy is shaking. “I’ll make them pay, Case. Every single person who ever laid a hand on you, I’ll make them pay.”
“And you won’t get hurt?”
It’s not a promise I should make, but I don't care. It’s what the boy needs to hear. I'll find a way to keep it. “I won’t get hurt.”
“Okay. Good.” Casey pulls out of the hug, lifting a fist to rub sleepily at his eyes. It’s… very little. My knees suddenly feel weak at the sight of it, the daddy in me begging to be let loose. “Can I sleep now? I’m really sleepy.”
“Yes,” I rasp. I quickly clear my throat and force myself to step back from the temptation in front of me. “Yes. Of course.”
Despite having just decided I should take some space to gather myself, I end up wrapping my fingers around Casey’s elbow and guiding the boy to the couch. I even help him sit. And then lay down. And tuck a throw pillow that has flowers, vines, and the words Fuck Around and Find Out embroidered in pastel thread on it beneath his head. And pull a hand-knitted chunky blanket over his body. And tuck that blanket around him and beneath his chin. And brush hair off his forehead and press a - Nope.
I stop myself with my lips just inches from his forehead, quickly pushing back to a standing position and taking a step away. I clear my throat. And then clear it again for good measure. “Are you comfortable?”
The sleepy boy doesn’t bother opening his eyes. He just nods and mumbles, “Comfortable.”
I walk backward to the desk chair and slowly lower myself into it. Then I spend entirely too much time just watching the young man sleep, soaking in how peaceful he looks, soaking in that he’s safe.
It isn’t until an alert goes off on the computer - one I quickly mute before it can wake Casey - that I remember I have a job to do. I tear my gaze away from the sleeping boy nearby, the boy I know I'll never be lucky enough to have for myself, and get to work.
By the second day in the safehouse, Nolan has discovered cooking as an outlet. He’s cooked just about anything he possibly could with what the fridge and cabinets had stocked, spreading the feast out on every available surface even though we made sure he understood it wasn't expected of him. Since I'm fully aware of his need for praise, I switched tactics and instead spent my morning telling him how much I appreciate his cooking and how delicious everything is. If a person could burst into flames from blushing hard enough, I think he would have. He must have been concerned about the same sort of thing because he had rushed out soon after.
I'm on my second plate when I see Travis for the first time since the operation ended. I smirk, knowing the reason he finally surfaced has nothing to do with us and everything to do with Carter. I've been trying to give Casey space, not wanting his recovery to be hindered by my hovering, but I had still brought him a smoothie this morning when I discovered he was back in the pool. He had told me Carter had snuck in to use his shower and borrow an outfit this morning before hypothesizing that Carter might be avoiding Travis for some reason. One look at Travis's face once he's swept the kitchen to discover Carter isn't here has me agreeing with Casey’s theory.
Ace and I exchange an amused look before I drawl, "Well, good morning sleepyhead."
"Yeah, yeah.” Travis heads straight for the coffee pot, frowning deeply. I give him 90 seconds before he asks about Carter. “How are things going? Any news on Mica?”
“He’s in the wind, but we’ll find the bastard.”
At least, we fucking better find him. I refuse to let that major piece of shit slip through our fingers. DuGray might be my top priority because of Casey, but Mica is a very close second.
Travis suddenly hisses as he spills coffee all over his hand. He starts cleaning up the spill with a dish towel and growls, “And the survivors?”
“The answer to that ranges vastly,” Ace informs him, his brows furrowed as he watches Travis try to do something as simple as pour himself coffee. “Do you need help over there?”
“Nope. I’m fine.” Travis peers into his mug. Probably because he barely got any liquid into it. When was the last time he had to pour himself coffee? I had to be self-sufficient in my position, keeping the house, the men, and Travis afloat at all times. But Travis was waited on hand and foot this past decade. It was expected of him to be. I suppose it makes sense that he'd be floundering with something as basic as pouring himself coffee.
For the first time, I realize just how much is going to change for Travis. Nearly overnight he went from being a foster kid trying to keep his head above water to being The Nathan Roarke. And now he's back to being just like everyone else. That has to be a shock to the system.
I watch my best friend try to pour the coffee again, my chest aching for him. Where is Travis’s support? Where’s his welcome bag and reassurances that everything will be okay? Has he talked to Dr. Singh yet?
“What?” Travis asks once he’s managed to fill his whole mug, his eyes darting from me to Ace.
“Nothing,” we say in unison.
