Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  Her advocate said it was typical in cases like this for the accused to claim innocence. And while the news had her name, they liked to say Wesley’s much more. It was twisted of her to envy his ill-gotten fame, especially when she wished they only knew her as a Jane Doe.

  The media referred to the case as Blaine versus The People. She was The People, yet she’d been utterly alone in that bathroom. Just a person. Just a victim. Just a girl. A girl alone with a monster.

  The relief of not having to attend the trial waged a tug of war in her chest. She wanted to see him go down, needed to see that look in his eye when the freedom he so arrogantly flaunted got stolen away. But what if that didn’t happen? What if all he ever got was a slap on the wrist while she was sentenced to a lifetime of living with these emotional scars?

  She debated if putting a face to the victim might help her case. She’d turned down the offers from journalists so far, but maybe being more than a name would show the world that she was just like them. And Wesley Blaine was nothing but a beautiful monster.

  The bad guy already knew who she was. Who was she hiding from? What did she care if the rest of the world knew this happened to her?

  Turned out, she cared a lot.

  In Harold’s voicemail, he asked her to write a letter, addressing the emotional damage not conveyed in the police or medical reports. He’d made the request several times before, and too many unfinished drafts hid in her dresser drawer.

  Seeing her truth jotted down on paper had a way of minimizing the pain she still needed to feel. She didn’t enjoy suffering or being tied up in knots, but she needed the pressure, needed to feel the cut sliding into her skin. She needed the hurt.

  She feared if she forgot the pain, all the craziness left in the wake of Wesley Blaine would seem irrational and misplaced. The pain focused her blame. But trying to fit her feelings into words diluted something. It mitigated the horror of what actually took place, reduced it down to an abbreviated letter. It was so much more than a letter. It was her story, her pain, her endless hurt.

  Besides, she wasn’t a good writer, and her inability to evoke emotion or think up powerful verbs shouldn’t sway the verdict one way or another. But it would.

  Like a broken metronome, every day another statement from some influential person in Wesley Blaine’s life hit the news, singing his praises, and the scales tipped more in his favor.

  Folding her hands around her cell, she lowered it to her lap. It felt like a lifetime had passed. She still thought about it every hour of every day—some hours tortured her with thoughts every minute. But she was getting better.

  She wasn’t having as many breakdowns or panic attacks. She and Callan were spending a lot of time together, kissing and facing their feelings. Things were on an upswing for her, but moments like this, moments when her phone rang with messages essentially telling her victimization wasn’t enough to earn justice, that she needed to publicly crucify herself, again and again, to make the world see she could bleed, to prove rape is rape is rape... Yes, these were the moments that really knocked her down.

  Why should it matter how he grabbed her or which bones he broke? He put his hands on her when she said no. He forced himself into her hard enough to make her scream and bleed from the searing pain. He hit her. He hurt her. He raped her.

  And no matter how civilized the world pretended to be, she somehow felt as much on trial as him.

  What if they interviewed people from her high school and found out she gave that guy a blowjob after the senior bonfire that one time? Would that somehow detract from the horrible things Wesley did? Would it make her more deserving of his crime? Soften his penalty?

  Those were the details the media sharks wanted. They had their picture of perfect Wesley Blaine in their heads. Now they needed a picture perfect victim.

  Or a woman deserving of the crime.

  They wanted a story more than the truth. And the deeper they dug, the more she realized how self-serving the media's loyalty was. A vilified victim would sell more headlines in the end. Her only other option would be to publicly bleed, show she’d been wounded just enough so as not to get accused of lies.

  The sound of a car on the street pulled her out of her thoughts, but not enough. She couldn’t get herself moving, the pressure to produce some sort of written voucher for her self-worth weighing her down.

  “Someone order breakfast?”

  She smiled. “I’m upstairs.”

  “Are ye comin’ down?”

  She stared at her phone and then at the drawer that hid all her failed attempts. The door creaked.

  “Em’ry?” Callan stepped into the room and abruptly turned around. “I shouldae knocked. Are ye all right, love?”

  He was so modest it made her laugh. She was in a robe. And he was holding a bouquet of ruby and pink roses.

  “Callan, turn around. I’m not naked.”

  He slowly pivoted, his cheeks wearing a splotch of red to match the roses. His gaze clung to the floor.

  “Are they for me?” She stood and touched the petals to her nose, breathing their soft scent in. “They’re beautiful.”

  “I dinnae ken which colors ye liked, but I thought these were the prettiest.”

  “I love them.” She lifted on her toes, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Thank you.”

  He finally glanced down at her. He shifted the towel on her head, and it unraveled, falling to the floor. Damp, tangled snarls of hair fell just past her shoulders.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Since Callan became more of a fixture in her life, her confidence had grown, and her stress seemed lighter. Her hair no longer fell out in clumps.

  “I should let ye get dressed.” He didn’t move.

  “Is that what ye want, for me to get dressed?”

  His gaze jumped to hers, questioning her teasing tone but not reciprocating. “That’s what’s wise, and we both know it, Em’ry.”

  Her humor faded. Her confused desires no longer recognizable, but still very much alive. As were his. “But it’s not what you want.”

  “Em’ry—”

  Taking the decision away from both of them, she unraveled the belt of her robe with one tug, and the material fell open. His stare locked with hers and his nostrils flared.

  “What do ye think you’re doin’?”

  God only knew. Her body tingled with anticipation—nervous, but not afraid. She shook with temerity but remained miles away from panic.

  She lifted a shoulder. “I ... thought you might want to look at me.”

  The weight of his gaze sometimes felt like heaven. She wanted to feel it on her naked skin.

  One day I hope to be the rain, sliding down her skin, washing away whatever came before...

  None of this was premeditated. All of it a result of him catching her by surprise at this exact place in time. But his words from last night stuck in her mind. Could he actually wash away whatever came before?

  She stepped back, broadening his view of her, and dropped her robe off her shoulders until it pooled at her feet. The cool air teased her bare hips, and a chill skated up her spine, tightening her nipples. His lips parted on a sharp inhalation, and he cursed, something ancient and possibly Gaelic.

  She turned and placed the roses on the bed, then stood before him completely naked. She’d never let anyone just look at her like this before. She didn’t suck in her tummy or cross her legs to hide the dimpled scar she hated on her left knee. She just stood there—honest, unrefined, and imperfectly whole.

  “You’re ... radiant.”

  Warmth exploded in her. Her lashes lowered, and she bit down on her lips, but they pulled free in a smile. When she looked at him again, she noted the way his breathing had changed and his eyes had darkened.

  Heat rushed from her chest to her face. “I hadn’t really thought this through.” Her nipples tightened as the room temperature cooled. “I forget what to do next.”

  His lashes lifted and he stared at her. Slowl
y, he stepped further into the room. He closed the door, then seemed to think better of it, and left it half open.

  She took a quick step back, her thighs grazing the comforter of the bed. He followed and the heat of his body burned through his clothes, warming her chilled skin. His gaze held hers and he traced a calming stroke down the side of her face with one finger.

  “I’d like, very much, to kiss ye, Em’ry.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

  He dropped to his knees and cupped her hips.

  “Wait...”

  He looked up at her, his face eye level with her sex.

  “I thought you meant...”

  Sliding his hand from her hips, he kept his stare on her eyes and ruffled the soft hair at her apex with the same finger he’d used to touch her face. Warm breath teased her wet folds, and she considered actually letting him kiss her there.

  He left the decision to her, waiting patiently, no longer stroking. Not even touching. Just looking up at her with those hungry eyes.

  She nodded, and he drew in a full breath, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the peak of her sex. She sucked in a gasp as his lips pressed more firmly. The soft, probing tip of his tongue swirled around her clit and teased with tentative licks.

  Her stance widened, and his hands caught her hips. His lips closed over her flesh, and he pulled softly. She gripped his shoulders for balance, a keening cry escaping her throat.

  He groaned and pulled her hips closer, angling her more toward his mouth. The first penetrating swipe of his tongue that separated her folds nearly dropped her to her knees. His mouth opened and closed, kissing, tasting, and sucking every tender part of her.

  It was delicate and divine. Torturous and wonderful. She swallowed, her mouth going dry as she breathed through the intensifying pleasure, her hands combing softly through his hair.

  He returned to her clit, swiping and swirling all that delicious heat over her sensitive bud. His hands never moved from her hips. He used only his mouth, and he used it in a way that told her he had all day just to kiss her there.

  When he tentatively sucked her clit between his lips, nibbling softly, she cried out. Her hand clutched the back of his head, holding her to him as her muscles shook.

  “More,” she breathed, her fingers lost in his soft hair and her mind spinning for that one out of reach push.

  His tongue shot between her folds, stabbing softly, as arousal wept from her. She needed more, and at the same time, it was too much.

  Reaching back for the bed, her body angled and she sank onto the covers, her toes still pointed into the floor and his hands tight at her hips. His mouth closed over her clit again, and this time he suckled the little knot with determined purpose.

  She cried out, her hand gripping the foot of the bed as her knees lifted, her thighs encircling his head. She shamelessly rocked against his working lips as her moans shifted to high-pitched cries.

  He burrowed deeper, worked faster. It was the most selfless act she’d ever shared with a man. Yet, he behaved as if the pleasure she received was solely for him.

  Her voice peaked in a crescendo of bliss, and she crested that elusive wave, falling into a sea of wild tremors and trembles as every muscle in her body skipped about, dancing right down to her bones.

  Her legs fell open, and she panted, little aftershocks tripping over her skin and jolting her supine limbs with tiny shivers.

  Callan’s cheek rested on her thigh, his hair and breath a welcome weight and tickle against her quivering skin. “Tis like biting into a lush tomato, fresh from the garden and still warm from the sun.” He turned his face and pressed a kiss to her damp curls. “I dinnae ken a woman could be so juicy. So ripe and full of taste.”

  Her entire body flushed with heat. “Thank you?”

  He chuckled. “I think I should be the one thankin’ you. Ye might be my new favorite snack.”

  She laughed and sank deeper into the bedding, her head lolling to the side and her gaze stilling at the sight of her roses. She traced a finger over the silky petals. “I hope you haven’t spoiled your appetite for breakfast.”

  He rose, sliding up her body and smiling like a cat with a mouth full of canary feathers. “Hardly.” His gaze dropped to her breasts. “May I?”

  Her arms slowly lifted, offering her body to him, a wave of confidence born in the fire of his gentle manners and palpable desire. His eyes followed hers as he lowered his head.

  She gasped at the first swipe of his tongue, her body still sensitive. He teased her nipples softly, licking and testing out various ways to find pleasure or draw hers. He might be disappointed, as he’d started lower and worked his way up instead of the other way around.

  Drawing back, he frowned at her chest. Her confidence wavered, and she wondered if she should cover herself. “You’re going to give me a complex if you keep looking at them like that.”

  His face, awash with guilt, stared at her. “I dinnae mean—”

  “I’m teasing.” She shrugged, making light of his response. “Not all men are into boobs.”

  “I dinnae care about other men. And it’s not about your boobs,” he said the word as if he’d never used it before. “It’s about you.”

  Her mouth made a silent oh.

  He cupped her, giving them a little jiggle. “Does that hurt?”

  She shook her head. What was happening? This was turning into more of an exam than any sort of foreplay. It was like he never played with boobs before.

  Oh, my God, he’s never played with boobs before.

  She scooted back on the bed, sitting up and knocking him off of her. She grabbed a pillow and covered her body. “Callan, are you a virgin?”

  He looked away and stood, turning his back to her.

  “Callan—”

  He reached for the flowers. “These should be in water.” Before she could think of something to say, he was gone.

  She scrambled off the bed and shoved her arms into her robe, knotting the belt quickly. He was already in the kitchen when she caught up to him.

  “Callan, you don’t have to be embarrassed.”

  “I’m not.”

  “It’s not a big deal. I mean, if you can overlook...” A chill locked in her bones. She didn’t want to devalue herself, but it seemed unrealistic to ignore the damage she’d suffered. “Who am I to judge anybody for being a virgin?”

  He thrust the bouquet in the sink and spun, grabbing her shoulders and lowering his stance to look her in the eye. “First, I’m no virgin. Second, you have every right to judge. What happened to ye, happened without consent. It will never tarnish who you are in my eyes. And last...” His lips closed as he rose to his full height. “Last...”

  She waited, wanting to know what the last detail might be.

  “Lastly...” He drew in a deep breath. “I’m no virgin, but I’ve never been with a woman.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Saratoga Springs, New York—America

  Present day

  He’d never said the words out loud and as they left him an internal shell cracked and something toxic burned from the inside out. Putting words to such a vile truth was like setting a needle to the vein. His heart hammered, vibrating his entire skeleton, and he dropped into a seat at the table, his stare working rivets into the surface.

  “What?” Her question breathed through the air. “But... You’re not gay. Are you?”

  If there was judgment in her voice, he dinnae hear it. Why was he telling her this?

  Maybe on some level, he thought to take away her shame by exposing his own. Or maybe his ego couldnae chance her misreading his inexperience as lack of skill. But even the memory of Rory made him shiver.

  Mostly, he ached to confide in her because she was his friend. And after years of solitary living, he wanted to tell someone the horror he survived.

  He swallowed and looked across the table. Her image swirled, his eyes wet and his throat full. “I’ve never told...” Tongue tied,
the words sank into him like led balloons, refusing to get out. “I dinnae want it.”

  The tension in her face softened as the color rushed out. “What?”

  Shallow breaths tightened his chest. His skin prickled with phantom weight. He could smell Rory. The bite of his sweet aftershave, the tang of his cum.

  His stomach churned, and he folded his hand into a tight fist. “When I was in Scotland, there was a man... A very powerful man. He was my boss. And he was pure evil. Corrupt and malevolent, vicious. He took great pleasure in using his power to manipulate others. He loved to force others to commit the most depraved acts.”

  As he heard himself speaking of a man he’d tried fruitlessly to forget, he understood there were no words vile enough to paint an accurate picture.

  “Ye have to understand, I take no issue with those who favor the same sex. I never gave it much thought, as my life moved accordin’ to circumstances. My da left, and I needed to help out my ma. Then she got sick and eventually we were alone, me, Innis, and Gavin.”

  “Your siblings?”

  “Aye.” He nodded, his stare burrowing into the napkin holder resting in the center of the table. “I was the oldest, and Innis was gettin’ bullied once she ... filled out. My sister was a stunning creature, smart and sharp and burstin’ with potential.”

  He swallowed, all that potential seeming to fall back on him like shrapnel whenever he tried to measure all she’d lost. Innis was his surrender, his sorrowful white flag. His failure.

  “And Gavin...” He still couldnae go there. “My wee brother.”

  Her delicate fingers closed over his fist, squeezing softly, lending him strength. He swallowed again at the lump growing in his throat.

  “When our ma passed, we hardly had the money to pay the coroner. No funeral. No grave. And when Innis came home, cryin’ that some boys were harassin’ her, I knew I had to do somethin’, get her to a safer school. Rhys, my best friend, had overheard men talkin’ about underground fights. They were somethin’ to gamble on, but the contenders got paid. It was fast money and I’d always been built like an ox, so we asked around.”