The Carrero Series 3: The Carrero Solution

I’m lying in a heap on the bed, numb from endless sobbing and wracking pain. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, listening to my blood rush through my head as my heart self-implodes inside my body.

I’m nothing but a shell. A quiet, empty shell of exhaustion and heartache, rumpled beyond recognition.

I lashed out, hit at him, and shoved him away with every ounce of strength I possessed. Yet still, he tried to cling to me.

I told him not to touch me, never to touch me again. I told him to leave and to go away. I screamed and cried and fell to pieces on the floor at his feet. His words tumbled around me like noise that I couldn’t understand, so consumed by my grief.

It’s only when I whimpered and begged that he leave me alone that he finally listened. He moved away so I could find my way to my feet, running into the solitude of this room … our room. His room. I shut him out and locked him away. I can’t bear for him to be near me, to touch me, or to look at me anymore.

The woman who possessed his heart once upon a time. The only other woman who has been loved by him and now carries his child.

Marissa Hartley.

Her name is like a dagger in my chest, a wound so unbearable, burning, and searing, ensuring I never recover from the fatal blow.

Fueled by my stupidity in making you believe I would betray you so readily over a fight.

There’s a light chap on the door. My breath halts and my pulse stops. His closeness still affects me. Even at a distance, my body feels him in the air and trembles.

“Emma?” Jake’s voice, hoarse and raw, causes sharp pain in my chest. I slide onto my side to blot him out, covering my ears, curling into a ball with a fresh wave of the unbearable aching inside me. Silent tears pour down my face. I just want this pain to stop devouring me.

“Emma, please? … Let me in,” he pleads, his voice as far away from my Jake as it could possibly be, different from how he normally sounds, crushing my soul. I’m so far away from myself that I fear I’ll never find my way back. I close my eyes tight, screwing them hard, willing him to leave. My voice wouldn’t come even if I wanted it to. It’s so raw and painful, making it too hard to swallow, aftereffects of the wailing of a desperate woman.

There’s a gentle thud against the door. It creaks with the pressure of human weight, a noise of something heavy and soft sliding down the other side slowly.

He left me until I became quiet, but I couldn’t lock him out forever. This is his apartment … his home. Not mine anymore. I need to get up, take everything I own, and leave him; he’s left me no choice but to go. There’s nothing here for us anymore.

Fresh waves of devastation hit me, causing me to break the silence with a sob. I can’t begin to think about leaving him, not yet, not while my body wants to lie here and die. The pain is so all-encompassing I can barely breathe.

I’m drowning in confusion. I can’t endure the pain of letting him close. The thought of his touch brings the flash of a vision into my head of him and her—him touching her, focusing on her eyes, kissing her. It slices through me like a hot poker and tortures me to my core.

“I … I … I can’t.” My voice is weak and fragile, a ghost of the normal tone I usually possess. I breathe through tears, unsure if I’m loud enough for him to hear me.

“Emma, I won’t touch you. I swear. I’ll keep my distance. I just need to see you … look at you,” he begs. He shifts toward the door to strain for my response, which shatters me all the more.

I can’t bear this sad, quiet version of him begging me, sitting slumped outside, and seeking permission to enter a room in his apartment.

“I can’t. I can’t get up.” It’s true. I don’t have the strength to walk to the door. My body’s broken. I cry quietly, tears falling freely beyond my control. I can barely lift my head, so drained of life I am beyond the point of moving. Fatigue is wracking every limb with emotional exhaustion. I don’t know what time it is, but it feels like I’ve been here for days.

“Just tell me I can open the door, and I will,” his voice is strained. He’s waiting and hoping I won’t hold him out while still seeking my permission.

I can’t keep him out as much as I desperately want to. He’s the one causing me paralyzing agony but is also the only person in the world with a hope of helping me. That’s my torture. My healer is also my tormentor. When all I can feel is devastation, my heart aches, calling out for the one person who always grounds me and makes me feel secure.

“It’s your house.” I crumble, not deciding for him. I flinch moments later, clenching my body in surprise, as he kicks the door open with effortless force. The wood splintering and metal sheering violently; light flooded from the other room, showing his strong masculine figure silhouetted in the frame.

I curl into myself tighter, as I did when I was a child, covering my face with my arms and instinctively defending my body. The pain of him being near me is more excruciating than anything I’ve ever endured. I hear him moving closer. The bed dips as he slides on, keeping his distance. He sighs heavily. I can feel every ounce of strong energy radiating from him, despairing and remorseful, surging with as much heartache as I am.