“No, you couldn’t have—”
“I was in my early twenties and I was on leave. And the question of why he’d done it wouldn’t leave me alone. So I tracked him down, caught him in an alley as he was leaving a bar. And I asked him why he’d put a pillow over her face. Why he’d suffocated her. He was drunk and he laughed at me. ‘Because I could,’ he said. And I . . . fucking lost it. I came at him, and I hit him. And I hit him and I hit him.” Even now he could still see his father’s face, bloody and swollen, could still feel the satisfaction that filled him with every blow that landed. “Then I put my hands around his throat and I fucking choked him. So he’d know what it was like to feel the breath leave you. So he would know what Molly felt when he held that pillow over her face.” He was breathing fast now, all his muscles locked as the adrenaline from the memory poured through him. He really needed to let go of her, get away, before he did something he wouldn’t be able to come back from. But there was only one last thing to tell her. “He had no pulse when I finally dropped him. So I left him there. I just turned around and left him for dead. I don’t know if I killed him and I didn’t bother to find out. I didn’t care.” He took a long, slow breath, trying to relax. Trying and failing. “I lost control of myself. I wanted revenge and I took it. Because I could. Because he was there and I was angry. I’m like him, Callie. I’m violent and I’m possessive and that’s why you shouldn’t want me anywhere near you.”
There was a moment of silence and he could feel her body tremble.
Was she afraid? Horrified? Because, she should be. She should be wanting to get as far away from him as possible.
“Untie me,” she said finally, her voice hoarse. “Now, Jack.”
Yeah, that was fear, wasn’t it? About fucking time.
He tried to feel some kind of satisfaction that he’d finally gotten through to her, but there was no satisfaction to be had. He’d succeeded in scaring her off but he didn’t feel pleased about it; he felt like he’d been given something precious to keep safe and had smashed it into little pieces instead.
Yeah, but that’s what you do, isn’t it? You lose control, you do what you want, and people end up getting hurt.
That was nothing he didn’t already know though. Sure, he hated the thought of those women and children dying in the rescue attempt he’d botched. And that was on him. But he didn’t regret the violence he’d dealt out to the pitiful excuse for a human being that was his father. No, he didn’t regret that at all. And maybe that was the worst part of it. That he’d felt no compunction at the time. That if the fucker presented himself right now, he’d put his hands around the asshole’s throat and choke the life out of him again, and feel glad doing it.
Callie didn’t need a man like that around her, not when she’d grown up with something similar.
Releasing her, Jack moved to undo the T-shirt he’d wrapped around her wrists, then did the same with the fabric binding her ankles. Her skin looked red and he wanted to rub it gently, make sure he hadn’t damaged her, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want him touching her right now. So instead he turned to get off the bed, put some space between them.
Only to be stopped by her arms sliding around his waist and holding on so tight he could barely breathe.
“Oh Jack,” Callie murmured. “I’m so, so sorry.”
* * *
Tears were pouring down Callie’s cheeks and she couldn’t stop them. Not that she cared about stopping them when her heart felt like it was breaking.
Jack had gone rigid the moment she’d put her arms around him, but she didn’t let go. She pressed her wet face against his back instead and closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I’m so sorry that happened to your sister.”
And she was. This all felt so very personal, so very close to home. She’d never thought his background would mirror hers so closely, but it did, and that’s why it hurt. Because she knew what he would have gone through as that small, eight-year-old boy. She’d gone through it herself. Sure, his father had sounded more physically violent than hers, but her own father was no less dangerous. He was manipulative and he hurt people the way Jack’s father had. No, she didn’t have a sibling, but she could easily imagine having one. Could easily imagine how awful it would be to be worried about them all the time, to be scared something would happen to them.
Her father wouldn’t have killed her—her blood was too precious to him—but that didn’t mean he mightn’t one day have lost it and hurt her badly enough. He’d certainly felt no compunction about hurting her mother so it was something that could have happened, for sure.
And it had happened to Jack.
She turned her face into the warmth of his skin, grief and a furious anger burning in her heart. Grief for him. Furious anger for the man who’d taken his sister from him.
“You shouldn’t be touching me, Princess.” His rough voice sounded even rougher than normal. “It’s best you stay away.”
“No.” She clung to him even tighter. “And you’re an idiot. Why the hell would you think I’d find the fact that you beat up your asshole father frightening? He deserved it. He deserved everything he got.”
Jack’s hands covered hers where they rested on his flat stomach, then he pulled them away, making her release him. Then he turned around. The expression on his face made her even angrier. Pain glittered in his green eyes, and anguish, too. Grief and a rage that mirrored her own.
“I didn’t just beat him up, Callie.” Fury threaded through his voice. “I lost it completely. I didn’t care whether he died or not. I wanted him hurt so I hurt him. Because I could.”
But she was already shaking her head. “It’s not the same. He hurt your sister and you were furious. Why should that make me afraid of you?”
Jack’s expression was set, hard. “Because I’m a violent man. I carry it around with me all the fucking time. And I’m possessive. I meant what I said when I told you I’d take everything if you were mine. I would and I’d feel no regret. Like I didn’t regret hurting that abusive motherfucker.”
She knelt upright all of a sudden and reached out, taking his face between her hands, the scars on his cheek rough against her palms. “You are not a violent man.” She stared into his eyes, seeing the pain and the grief, the flames of an anger that burned so hot and fierce. No, not violent. Passionate. But that was good, that’s exactly what she wanted, because as she was starting to discover, she was a passionate woman.
He started to open his mouth, but she went on over the top of him. “And don’t tell me that I don’t know what a violent man is. You know I do. I’ve lived with one for twenty-two goddamn years.”
Jack’s gaze was burning into hers, emerald-glittering, knife-sharp. A muscle leapt in his jaw and she could feel the tension in him humming like high tension wires.
“You’re not like him, Jack,” she said fiercely. “You’re not anything like my father. And you’re not anything like your father either.”
“Then why do I want you so fucking badly?” he bit out. “Why do I want to hold you down, fuck you hard. Hurt you? Why do I like you bound and helpless and completely at my mercy? It’s wrong, Callie. It’s like a fucking symptom of who I am inside. And I can’t let that out, especially not with you. Not considering what you had to deal with growing up.”
A shiver went through her, because everything he said just made her body hum. She firmed her fingers on his jaw, his muscles beneath her hands tight. “No, I don’t accept that. It’s not a symptom. Because what does it say about me that I like it? Does that make me weak? Does it make me a doormat that I like it when you tie me up? Does it mean that because I got off on you pinching me and biting me, I somehow like violence? That I asked for everything my father gave me?”
“Princess—”
“No, I haven’t finished. Maybe it is weird to like those things, given my background. Given who my dad is and what he did to me. But it doesn’t feel weird to me and I know why. Because it’s you.” She st
ared down at him, wanting him to know this at the very least, because this was important. “I had to toe the line with Dad, be a good girl. Because he frightened me. He made me feel helpless. Weak. But when you touch me, when you tie me up, when you hurt me, you make me feel strong. The difference is you, Jack. That’s what you do to me. That’s what you’ve done since the moment you walked into the club that night. You make me strong and brave. You make me feel like I can take on anyone, take on my Dad, even. You make me feel safe. You’ve never made me feel weak, not once. And that doesn’t make you a violent man. That makes you a good one.”
The muscle in the side of his jaw leapt again. “That’s just the sex talking. Don’t make it mean something it doesn’t.”
She searched his face. “Do you really believe that? Because I don’t. If it was simply about sex, then it wouldn’t matter who touched me. But it does. I haven’t felt this way about any other man. It’s only you, Jack. It’s only you I trust.”
He stared back at her, for a long moment unspeaking. He was still sitting there stiffly, as if he wanted to pull away but was trying very hard to stop himself, and she could see the denial in his eyes. But she thought there was something more there. Something that looked like a flicker of hope.
“Why?” he suddenly demanded. “Why me? What have I ever done to deserve your trust?”
“Seriously? You don’t know?” God, if he didn’t understand, after everything she’d said, then perhaps he wouldn’t.
Why is it so important to you that he understand?
Stupid question. It was important because she didn’t want him thinking he was something he wasn’t. In fact, she couldn’t bear it. She could almost see why he believed he had the same seeds of violence in him that his father had, but he was holding on to that belief very firmly. Maybe too firmly.
You’re just going to have to show him otherwise.
She thought for a minute, then slid her fingers along his jaw to the hard ridges of the scar tissue that licked up the side of his face. He stiffened even more, but didn’t pull away. She kept her touch light, stroking the hard flesh, following the lines of the scars. Some parts were rough, some parts were smooth, and the contrast fascinated her. “What do you think these are?” she asked quietly.
He blinked, as if the question surprised him. “Scars from a fucking grenade. What else would they be?”
“No. They’re more than that, aren’t they?”
Something shifted in his green eyes, and abruptly he pulled his jaw from her grip, turning away. “Don’t make them into something they’re not.”
His voice was flat. Clearly, she was touching on painful things, which maybe meant that she should stop and let him have his distance. But she didn’t want to. This was too important. He was too important.
Besides, if he really didn’t want her pushing, he would have gotten up and left and he hadn’t. He was still sitting on the side of the bed, glorious in his nakedness, his head turned away, tension vibrating through him.
She sat back on her heels, kept her gaze on his face. Then she lifted a hand and ran her fingertips down his side, over the bright ink of the dragon covering the scars that climbed like vines from his thigh up to just underneath his arm.
He went even more rigid and, yet again, didn’t move. As if he were a wild creature who was learning about touch for the first time and didn’t know whether to trust it or not.
“They’re not just scars,” she said. “Whatever you think about them, they’re more than that.” She followed the twisting scar that made up the dragon’s back with one finger. “You wouldn’t have tattooed anything over them if they weren’t.”
His breathing was fast. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? You know what I see when I look at these scars? What I thought when I heard the story of how you got them? They’re the marks of someone who put his life in danger in order to save someone else.” She spread her palm out, covered the pitted hollow of one particularly vicious scar. “They’re marks of bravery, Jack.”
His hand reached out then, his fingers closing painfully around her wrist, pulling her fingers from his skin. He was looking at her, his intense gaze hot with anger. “They would be if I’d fucking saved even one of them. But I didn’t. So don’t you dare talk to me about fucking bravery. I didn’t save them and I couldn’t save Molly and I—” He stopped abruptly, breathing hard.
Of course. He hadn’t been able to save his sister. He hadn’t been able to protect her.
Something twisted inside her. There was a time for challenge, for the fight, but there was also a time for gentleness. And she knew—she didn’t know how but she did—that it was gentleness he needed now.
“There’s violence in my past. . . .”
Had he ever known it? Had someone ever held him? Touched him carefully and lightly? Had someone ever held him when his sister had died? But of course, she knew the answer to that. No. They hadn’t.
Callie let her hand remain where it was, in his grip. And instead, she raised the other and ran her fingers over the unmarked side of his face, caressing the smooth, olive skin. “Maybe you didn’t save them, no. But you saved me.” She moved to his mouth, tracing his lower lip, the softness of it a surprise and a delight. “And you showed me how to be brave. How to be strong.”
He was so still, like she was touching a statue. Except for that anger glittering brightly in his eyes, restless and hot, flickering like a flame. “You want to know what those scars mean to me?” His voice was almost guttural. “They remind me of who I failed.”
But she didn’t need to hear that. She already knew.
His grip around her wrist was suddenly painful, but she ignored it, because this was more important than something as minor as physical pain. “You were eight years old and he was an adult. You didn’t fail anyone.”
It was clear he hadn’t heard, the look in his eyes distant. “I did. I failed my mom.” His voice got even rougher. “I failed Molly.”
Grief twisted in her heart. A grief she knew she had no right to feel, because this wasn’t her tragedy. Yet she felt it cut like a knife all the same. Grief for him, for what he’d lost. For what he clearly believed about himself.
Of course he would feel that he’d failed. He was a protector through and through, and she could imagine him even at eight, wanting to save his little sister. Wanting to save his mother.
But he’d been too young, too small. And that failure must eat away at him every day. God, she could see it now, in his anger and his grief. Eating away at the foundations of this strong man, deep cracks that no one could see. Except she could see them. Now she knew what those scars meant to him, it was all so very clear.
Her eyes prickled and she tried swallowing back the tears, but they escaped anyway, running down her cheeks and his gaze followed them, his expression twisting.
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t fucking cry for me.”
“Fuck you. I’ll cry for you if I want to.” Callie sucked in a ragged breath, ignoring the pain in her wrist, letting her fingers trail down over his jaw, his neck, down to his throat, feeling the quickened beat of his pulse. “And you’re wrong. You’re just . . . so fucking wrong.” She didn’t feel gentle now. She felt fierce. “You didn’t fail any of them.” She slipped her hand around behind his neck, spreading her fingers out so that she was gripping him, pressing her fingers hard against his flesh as if the pressure would make him see. “Those women and kids? You tried to save them. Didn’t you listen when I told you that intention mattered? You tried, Jack. You fucking tried. No, it didn’t happen the way you wanted it to, but you tried so hard. And your mom and your sister . . . You were a child.”
He shook his head, his muscles tightened as if he was going to going pull away, but she tightened her grip on him. “No,” she said fiercely. “You listen to me. Don’t you dare dismiss what I have to say.”
His gaze was scalpel sharp. “Why should I listen to you?”
“Why?” Her heart was raging
behind her ribs and she almost shook him. “Why do you think? What kind of household do you think I grew up in? It was the same as yours. Oh sure, we had money, but Mom and I were ruled by the same kind of violent bastard you were. And you know what else? The night Dad dragged me home from college, it wasn’t just him who lit into me, it was Mom, too. She blamed me for Dad’s abuse. He wanted a son, you see, and after I was born there were complications. She couldn’t have any more kids and Dad refused to adopt.”
Jack’s gaze was still bright with anger, but he didn’t pull away this time, only watched her. So she went on. “Mom always said that Dad never hurt her before I was born, but that he changed afterward. And that was my fault. My failure was being born, Jack. I thought she was the one person who loved me, but she didn’t.”
She was shaking now and she couldn’t seem to stop. Anger and pain and grief were tangling themselves up inside her and she didn’t know how to control them. God, this was supposed to be about him, not her own pain.
“I just . . . I just wanted you to know that I understand a little about failure,” she forced out, still gripping the back of his neck tightly. “And I understand about blame. But you have to know, that what happened isn’t your fault. You were eight years old and you couldn’t have done anything. You couldn’t have stopped your father and you couldn’t have made your mom leave.” She took a ragged breath. “Because if you could have, then my mom was right. Even though I did nothing wrong, then I am to blame for my dad’s behavior. That all of what I went through is my fault.”
He said nothing, staring at her for what felt like a very long time, and she couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes. It was bright with something that wasn’t anger for a change. Something softer. Not pity, because she couldn’t have stood for that, but something that was maybe understanding. It made it difficult to breathe, made more tears gather in her eyes.
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