Chapter 12: Scarred Devotion
The first thing she felt was warmth. A solid, encompassing heat along her back, and the heavy, welcome weight of an arm draped over her waist. For a disorienting moment, Tamera floated in a blank, peaceful space. No alarms. No muffled cries through a baby monitor. No dread pooling in her stomach before the day had even begun.
Just warmth, and the slow, steady rhythm of breath stirring the hair at her nape.
Reality seeped in gently, like dawn through a crack in the curtains. The scent of him—clean cotton, cedar, and something uniquely masculine—filled her lungs. The previous night unfurled in her memory not as a shocking reel, but as a series of profound, tactile impressions: the rule of his voice, the devastating kindness of his touch, the way he had kissed the silver trails on her hips as if committing a map to memory.
Every scar is mine to kiss now.
Her breath caught. She didn’t dare move.
The arm around her tightened infinitesimally. “I know you’re awake,” his voice rumbled, sleep-rough and intimate against the shell of her ear. “Your breathing changed.”
She swallowed. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.” He nuzzled the sensitive spot below her ear, his morning stubble a delicious scratch against her skin. “Long enough to watch the light hit your cheek. Long enough to think about all the things I’m going to do for you today.”
A flutter, half anxiety, half exhilaration, took flight in her chest. “Aiden… I have to—”
“You have to nothing,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. He shifted, rolling her onto her back so he could look down at her. The morning sun streaming through the massive window turned his skin to polished bronze and lit a quiet fire in his hazel eyes. “Today is yours. And mine. The world can wait.”
He said it with such effortless conviction that she almost believed it. But the phantom vibration of her silenced phone in her purse felt like a heartbeat from another life. “The girls… Marcus…”
“Will manage for a few more hours.” He brushed a thumb over the worry line between her brows. “You texted him last night. You are safe. That is all he needs to know. And your girls are with the weekend nurse until noon. You told me that yourself Thursday, remember? So. No negotiations.”
He had remembered. The detail, tossed out during a business lunch three days ago, lodged in his mind while her own husband would have forgotten it instantly. The realization unspooled another thread of tension inside her.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay,” he echoed, a smile touching his lips. Then he moved, slipping out of the bed with a fluid grace that belied his size. The cool air rushed to fill the space he left, and she immediately missed his heat. He stood there, gloriously unconcerned by his nakedness, and looked at her. “First, breakfast. You’re too thin.”
“I am not,” she protested automatically, clutching the duvet to her chin.
He arched a brow, a silent, eloquent challenge that swept from her face to her toes beneath the covers. “Arguing with me about your own care is a waste of your energy, Tamera. I’ll win.” He walked to a large dresser, pulled out a pair of grey sweatpants, and stepped into them. The way they hung low on his hips was its own kind of distraction. “Stay there.”
He left the bedroom, and the loft fell into a quiet hum of city sounds several stories below. She lay still, staring at the exposed steel beams of the ceiling. The space was so undeniably his. Ordered, strong, intentional. A direct counterpoint to the beautiful, cluttered chaos of her home, a chaos she loved and curated, but which so often felt like it was slowly burying her.
She heard the clatter of a pan, the hiss of a gas burner. The domestic sounds were surreal in this context. After a few minutes, she pushed herself up, the sheets pooling around her. His discarded t-shirt from last night lay on a nearby chair. She grabbed it, pulled it over her head. It swam on her, the soft fabric smelling like him, falling to her mid-thighs. She padded barefoot to the doorway.
The open-plan living area was awash in morning light. Aiden stood at the professional-grade range, his back to her, muscles shifting under his skin as he worked. The scene was so disarmingly normal it made her chest ache.
“I said stay in bed,” he said without turning around.
“How did you know I was here?”
“The floor creaked by the bookcase. And I can feel you looking at me.” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping over her in his shirt. A possessive gleam flickered in his eyes. “Better. But you’re still out of bed. That’s a point against you.”
“A point?” She leaned against the doorframe, a tentative smile playing on her lips.
“Mmm. I keep a tally. Too many points, and there are consequences.” He said it mildly, turning back to flip a golden-brown french toast in the pan. “Good consequences. The kind that make you blush and forget your own name. Now, go sit. At the table. Feet off the floor.”
The command, wrapped in casual domesticity, sent a shiver through her. She obeyed, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar. She tucked her feet onto the rung, the cool metal against her soles. He worked in efficient silence for a few more minutes, then brought a plate to her. It wasn’t just french toast. It was artfully arranged, dusted with powdered sugar, berries scattered like jewels, a dollop of whipped cream on the side. A sprig of mint.
“You’re ridiculous,” she breathed, looking at the plate.
“I’m thorough.” He set a glass of orange juice next to her, then rounded the counter to sit beside her, his own plate noticeably larger and more utilitarian. “Eat.”
She picked up her fork, cut a small bite. The flavors burst on her tongue—vanilla, cinnamon, the tart pop of a blueberry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten something so deliberately made, so presented. She usually grabbed yogurt while unloading the dishwasher. Aiden watched her, eating his own food with a focused appetite.
“You watch me like I’m a science experiment,” she said between bites.
“I watch you like you’re the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.” He said it simply, a statement of fact. “Now tell me something real. Something you wanted as a little girl and never got.”
The question was so unexpected it bypassed all her defenses. She didn’t think. “A dollhouse,” she said softly, staring at her plate. “One of those big, elaborate Victorian ones with tiny furniture. I cut pictures out of catalogs and taped them to a shoebox.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Silly.”
“It’s not silly.” His voice was gravel. “What else?”
Encouraged, the words kept coming, small and hidden things rising to the surface in the safe space he created. “Saturday morning cartoons. In pajamas. With someone who wouldn’t tell me to be quiet or get up and do something useful.” She took a gulp of juice. “To be carried. To be… small. Without it being a problem.”
Aiden nodded slowly, as if filing each item away in a sacred catalog. He finished his food, took her empty plate, and placed both in the sink. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something purposeful.
“Stand up,” he said.
She did. He approached her, stopping just inches away, the sheer size of him making her feel deliciously miniature. “The rules start now, for today.” He reached out, his fingers going to the top button of the t-shirt she wore. “First, I dress you.”
Her pulse hammered in her throat as he slowly, methodically, unbuttoned the shirt. He pushed it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The morning light kissed her skin. He didn’t move to touch her, just looked his fill, his gaze a physical caress. Then he took her hand and led her back to the bedroom.
He went to his closet, a walk-in space of organized neutrals. He emerged with a pair of soft, charcoal-colored leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater in a pale oatmeal hue. He knelt before her.
“Lift your foot.”
She braced a hand on his shoulder for balance as he guided first one foot, then the other, through the leggings, pulling them up over her legs, his hands smoothing the fabric over her calves, her thighs, her hips with a practicality that was utterly intimate. He stood, holding the sweater. “Arms up.”
She raised her arms like a child. He gathered the sweater and pulled it down over her head, his fingers gently combing her hair free from the collar. The cashmere was impossibly soft, a gentle embrace. He then took a brush from his dresser and stood behind her, drawing it through her curls with a patience that made her want to weep.
“There,” he said, his hands settling on her shoulders. He turned her to face the full-length mirror mounted on the wall.
She stared. The woman reflected was both familiar and a stranger. Swaddled in his clothes, which hung on her frame, yes, but with a cozy elegance. Her face was bare, her hair a cloud of curls he had tamed just enough. She looked… cared for. Soft. His.
“See?” he murmured into her hair, his eyes meeting hers in the glass. “This is what it looks like. This is what you look like, when you let someone take the weight.”
A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He just held her, his chin resting on her head, until her breathing evened out.
The moment stretched, peaceful and full.
Then, her phone rang from the depths of her purse. Not a text. A call. The specific, jarring ringtone she’d assigned to Marcus.
The spell didn’t break so much as fracture. The real world wasn’t knocking anymore; it was kicking the door down. She felt Aiden’s body tense behind her, his hands firming on her shoulders, not in restraint, but in anchor.
“You don’t have to answer it,” he said, his voice low.
She watched her own face in the mirror. The sadness in her eyes was still there, but beneath it, she saw a new layer—a flicker of the woman who had chosen to stay last night, who had eaten the beautiful breakfast, who was standing wrapped in the care she’d always needed.
“I know,” she said, her voice clearer than she expected. She took a deep breath, the cashmere sweater rising and falling with it. “But I do.”