Addicted (Ethan Frost #2)(17)

“You can’t stop me.”

“Damn it, Chloe, please. I love you.” He presses hot kisses to my forehead, my eyes, my jaw. “I love you so much. I’ll fix this. I swear, I’ll fix it. Just give me a chance. I’ll find a way—”

“There is no way to fix this, Ethan!” I bring my hands up and shove at his chest, hard. This time, he stumbles back, though I know it’s more from the emotional impact of the blow than it is from the blow itself. “There is no way to rewrite the past.

“I told you when we met that I was broken. I told you that you weren’t going to be able to fix me.”

“You’re not broken, baby. You’re not.” There are tears in his eyes, tears in his too-thick voice, and it hurts. Oh God, it hurts so badly to see him like this. To know that I’ve caused it, that I’ve reduced this strong, beautiful man to this when all he’s ever been is kind to me. It’s a blade deep inside me, an open, aching wound that can’t close because the knife keeps twisting, twisting, twisting.

“I am.”

“You’re not. Maybe you were, but you aren’t anymore. I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you. You’re strong, baby, so strong that some days it’s all I can do to believe that you’re mine. That I’m the one who gets to touch and kiss and hold you.”

He shakes his head, the look on his face saying that even now he can’t believe his luck. I know the look, because I wore the same one every day we were together when I thought about the fact that this as-gorgeous-on-the-inside-as-he-is-on-the-outside man was really mine.

“How you could have gone through everything you have and come out the other side this beautiful, brilliant woman …” He shakes his head. “It overwhelms me. You’re so smart and so talented and so sure of what you want, sure of how you’re going to get it. Don’t you see, sweetheart? That’s about as unbroken as you can get.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes! You are. I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you. Wish that you could understand. I’m in awe of you, Chloe. You’ve been to hell and back and you’re still here, still fighting to make a life for yourself. Still fighting to make the world a better place. None of that has anything to do with me. That’s all you, baby. It’s you, not me. You’ve healed yourself. Don’t let my bastard of a brother change that. Don’t let him ruin what you’ve built. Don’t let him ruin us.”

Now I’m the one crying. Again. I swipe at my cheeks, trying in vain to stem the flood of tears.

“Fuck.” Ethan breathes the word out and this time when he pulls me into his arms, I don’t fight him. I can’t, not when I crave his touch like a junkie craves a fix. I’m addicted to him, to his strength and his kindness, to the way he holds me and the way he makes my body burn with just a touch.

Except tonight. Tonight I’m cold. Cold to the bone. Cold to the soul.

It only makes me crave him more.

“Baby, don’t cry. Please, Chloe, don’t cry.” He kisses my tears away, one by one by one. Over and over again. In between the kisses, he murmurs incoherent fragments of love and loss and apology and I can feel the crack widening deep inside me. Can feel myself breaking into thousands of irreparable pieces. So many pieces that even Ethan won’t be able to hold them together, no matter how strong or safe or determined he is.

I take a step back, out of his arms. Away from his warmth. It hurts, physically hurts, but I know I don’t have a choice. I have to push him away now, while I still have the strength. Or we’ll both end up destroyed under the weight of my failures.

He tries to hold on to me, tries to keep me in his arms. But all it takes is a whispered, “Ethan, please, stop,” for him to let me go.

“I can’t do this,” I tell him. “I’m not strong enough.”

“I am,” he tells me. “Let me be strong enough for the both of us. Please, Chloe.”

He reaches into his pocket, then presses something metal into my hand. I know what it is before I even look down.

“You had it fixed.”

He presses a gentle kiss to my temple. “Always.”

I stare at the belly chain, my fingers stroking familiarly over its cool platinum and diamond links. I want it so badly. Want to wear it. Want to feel the weight of it around my waist, a tangible symbol that I belong to Ethan. That we belong to each other.

“Can I put it on you?” he whispers against my ear as his fingers brush against my waist.

Yes! I want to scream my assent, want to beg him to claim me again, to make me his. I want to feel safe in the way I do only when Ethan is all around me.

But I can’t let him do it. Not now when everything is so, so awful.

“No.” It’s quieter than a whisper, so soft that I can barely make out the sound of it and I’m the one speaking.

But Ethan hears. Somehow he hears, and he looks away, but not before I see the obvious hurt in his eyes, hurt that echoes the agony slicing through me like the dullest of blades.

His fingers clench on my jaw, and we stand that way for what feels like forever, the same pain that is keeping us apart somehow also tying us together. And then he’s tilting my chin up so that I have nowhere to hide, no choice but to look at him.

And I do. God, I do. The anguish of the past couple of days is etched into his face. I can see it in the bruises from the fight, in the dark circles beneath his uninjured eye and the grooves around his mouth that weren’t there last week. Before I even know I’m going to do it, I reach up to stroke the deep line to the right of his mouth. He turns his head then, brushing his lips against my fingers.