She stares at the light, soft material, and I find myself wrapped up in her the way she is in it. As she gently touches it, I long to be gently touching her, holding her again, having her fit perfectly against me. It’s like she was made for me, the way that dress is made for her. Geez, get a grip, Clint.
“I can't wear this. I just . . . can't.”
“Really. It's all right.”
“But it was so special.”
“And so are you.” There's a flicker of something in her eyes. Almost like she can't believe me but wants to. Or at least I think that's what I saw. It’s too quick. In any event, she needs something, and this is what I’ve got to offer. I hope she takes it. “Who knows? Maybe this could become your hello dress.”
Haven glances to the floor and says in a whisper, “Thank you.”
“I'm gonna check to see if there's any . . . girly product stuff here somewhere from Sir's latest girlfriend.” I shuffle toward my bedroom door. Almost out, I turn around and command, “Stay here.” No, she's not a solider. She's not a small child. She's not a dog, but I can't help but reinforce certain things as a means to protect her from herself and her past.
Down the hall, at the end, past my bathroom, the guest bedroom, and the bathroom is the master suite, the place where Sir occasionally sleeps. I attempt to knock at Sir's door, but it opens first as he exits.
In surprise, he raises his eyebrows at me, “Yes, Clint?”
“Does your girlfriend, Krista–”
“Karen.”
“Right. Does she have any female stuff here?” The words sound foreign and reek of confusion. I don't know what women carry from place to place. It's my understanding that it varies. At this point, until I get her to the store to pick out her own toiletries, anything not manly will do.
“Like feminine product–”
“Like makeup or something.”
“Oh,” Sir looks relieved, like the thought of it being that time of the month for Haven would be just one too many problems for him to handle. For a brief moment, he's out of sight, while I wait in the doorframe, eyes doing my best not to settle on anything on the inside.
He hands me a small, pink pouch of some kind. “Just let her use whatever. We'll replace it. I'm heading over to Mindy's now to get an immediate handle on this situation. Now are you sure–”
“Yes, Sir,” I nip the conversation in the bud before he can attempt to create doubt within me. No matter how much he doesn't want this or want me to want this, it is happening. Haven is here to stay as long as she's willing.
I wonder if he’ll ever be at ease about the situation. Thankfully, he lets it drop for now, “All right then. We'll see you two over there shortly.”
I nod and let him walk past me before I relocate myself back to my bedroom, bag still in hand. “I don't know what you can use from this, if anything. I think there's some makeup, though I don't know how much of it you can use. Uh, maybe some perfume? Travel deodorant?” I glance down at the bag, “It's been eleven years since Mom died. You would think the man would've settled down by now, remarried—hell, just keep a girlfriend longer than six weeks at a time.” Shit. I can't believe I just said that out loud. “I'm rambling. I don't usually ramble. In fact, I don't usually say much at all. I'm trained not to say much at all. There's just something . . .”
Her eyes are doing it again, that thing where they light up and force my heart to start pounding in my chest like it's in a jailbreak. The luring, dark-brown layers seem to be whispering my name, demanding I open up and lose myself to them. Submit. And I find myself wanting to. It's like a toxic chemical has entered my body and wreaked havoc on my brain. I have to get away from her. Just a minute, I just need a minute.
“Would you like to shower before dinner?”
“Yes, please.”
Quickly, I show her my bathroom, get the water started, the dress settled in, and the pink bag. Once she's in and set, I jog over with my clothes to the guest bathroom in desperate need of a shower myself.
The warm water washes over the top of my head and down my shoulders, my arms bracing the tile walls. What's happening to me? First I was feeling, then I was having memories, and now I'm openly vulnerable. I don't do feelings. They make sure to flush them out of you in training if you haven't already done so before you enroll. I don't have memories. They're behind a locked door with a cemented brick wall. I have facts from my past, information. I don't have longing emotions for them. I don't wish to relive them. I damn sure don't relive them inside my mind like a highlights reel. My body swivels around so the water runs down the angel-wing tattoos on my back, the ones that have my mother's name engraved in them. I can't keep letting Haven do this to me. I just can't. I don't know what's on the other side of that wall anymore, and I don't need to know. I need to get a grip on reality, this situation with her. I can't protect her if I'm some babbling moron, emotionally unstable, a useless post-adolescent thug. She needs me to be Grim, a Marine, a solider, a protector, not whoever it is Clint may be if the wall goes down. When the wall goes down. A low growl leaves me. That wall cannot come down.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in a pair of dark-blue jeans and a white, button-up shirt with a navy blazer on top. Out of habit, I pull at the collar, feeling a little like a small child going to an adult dinner. I've done this a million times before, but I feel nervous. I tug again. What if Haven hates this shirt? I tug at the sleeves of the jacket. Or this jacket?
Thinking of her, I slide out of the guest bathroom and decide to walk by my own—no reason to impose on her more than necessary. Though, I imagine her soaking wet probably looks like an adolescent fantasy. My body starts to stiffen. Not now.
No sound of running water, meaning she must be done. I lean closer, hoping to hear her stir, the smallest sign that she is indeed OK on the other side of the white door. Then there's a crashing sound followed by the words, “I can't breathe . . .”
I toss the door open and fall to her side, swooping her into my arms like a scared, wounded bird. Tears fill her eyes as she buries her face on my shoulder, one hand clutching my coat for leverage, the other on her own stomach.
“Alpha,” I whisper, my fingers stroking the side of her head, entangling themselves in knots of water and tangles. Haven continues to shake and shiver, trapped once more in some sort of traumatic tornado of emotions she got swept away in. I cannot handle this sight. But this moment isn't about me. She needs me to be strong so she can be weak. I pull her in close, applying pressure against her white, towel-coated body, almost like placing her in a protective cage that nothing short of the hand of God could break through. I just need her to remember she's safe here with me. Protected. Just one spark of memory of that safety, and I know she'll be all right. I know she still trusts me.
I don't move, say a word, or reposition myself until I finally feel a bit of relief release itself from her body. She raises her head so that her eyes fall into mine. With a shaky hand, she reaches out to touch me as if verifying I'm real, if this is real.
Her hand, now clean and free from the tier of terror it was trapped in before, gently drags itself down my face, right beside my eyes, “You're eyes . . . have sunflowers in them.”
They're blue, but the way the yellow flakes circle around and clump together, many people see a sunflower. Mom used to say it was because they were her favorite flower that God put them in my eyes. She said He gave them to her in a way that sunflowers could never wither away, in a vase she could always treasure that would never break. Well, she was almost right. I broke when I watched her die, and I'm breaking again right now watching this angel go through this nightmare.
In a whisper, I answer, “They do.”
Haven sighs, her hand coming away from me, gearing up for what looks like an apology. Her perfect pair of round lips slip open to speak.
“Don't.” The order comes out. My large hand goes to her small face, thumb stroking the bruise on her right cheek. This angel has nothing to apologize for, ever.
I rise to my feet and help her back onto her own. Not another word is said as I pick up the towel I imagine was in her hair and gently give the ends of her hair a tussle. As carefully as I dried the ends, I wipe the water off her shoulders and upper arms, taking my time, savoring ever pattern, mole, and line that I can. Breathtaking. How can I think she's anything but an angel?
When she's dry, I pick up the dog tags from the counter top, which is when I notice two wedding bands there as well. They must be her parents’. She must've been holding onto them, hiding them, keeping what she could of them still alive, never allowing the monster whose days are now running short to take that one last thing from her. I break the bracelet band to the tags and slip the rings onto the same chain. After closing it back up, I place the chain back around her neck, lift her hand to it, and give it a soft pat.
Her trembling hand slowly reaches up for mine, fingertips barely brushing it. With a nod, I back out of the bathroom slowly, leaving the door cracked just in case.
Impatiently, I wait on the downstairs couch in a bit of disbelief. Am I forcing her to go to this dinner? My head falls into my hands from the stress I keep battling. I know how to handle my stress, but I can't seem to get a good handle on it at the moment. She really should stay behind. She had a meltdown in the bathroom just twenty minutes ago, and she was all alone. It's understandable. It's all understandable. She barely escaped the pit of hell. She needs quiet. Parading her in front of people? In front of strangers? This is a stupid idea. It's like a test from Sir. Am I capable of making the right calls when it comes to her? Of course. Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know. I need to march up there and tell her to take a sleeping pill to just relax. I need to explain to her it's better for her. I won't worry any less and most likely bail out on my own party earlier than I would have but thankful to have a legit excuse to walk away. That would be the right call.
The sound of a footstep brings my face up. Haven is standing at the bottom of the stairs looking like something out of an old photograph, something refreshed and redesigned, something that's got every word I was about to utter under wraps. From the dress to the shoes I stumbled across in the hall closet from one Sir's conquests, she radiates extraordinary. I can't even fathom what to say to her right now.
My jaw tries to move but can't. I stand up and approach her.
In a girlish tone, she says, “Can you believe I'm the same girl you saw a few minutes ago?”
I stick my arm out for her to wrap her hands around, “Yes.”
She blushes, and I'm proud to be the one to warm her cheeks.
“And there's nothing wrong with being that girl I saw a few minutes ago.” It's OK for her to be weak in the journey of learning to be strong. She's beautiful whether she’s whimpering over hauntings from a world I'll never understand or charming in an expensive piece of dinner wear. To be honest, I think she's more captivating in a raw element like I saw before. I just don't like knowing what makes her feel that way.
We head toward the front door until she yanks me to halt by simply saying my name, “Clint.” At that moment, the world shuts down. Sounds, sights, and every bit of attention I have zones in on her. I try not to be intimidated by how she has that effect. “Do you think when I get a new identity, I could keep the name Haven?”
I need to tell her no. It's not smart. It damn sure isn't safe. Part of relocating and starting over is leaving memories good or bad behind a barrier that no one touches, including you. Her dark-brown eyes seem to be fighting back a tear, waiting to drop if I give her the answer she doesn't want. I won't be the reason that tear falls. Not now. Not ever. Not if I can help it.
“Yes.”
She smiles, and my heart melts. Anything is worth seeing her smile, even if it is just a soft one of thanks. God help me. I'm screwed.
Our walk is brisk, the cool air making her fragile frame shiver. I immediately sense her discomfort and prepare to take off my blazer. I'll be damned if she's cold. Any sort of protection she needs is my job, down to temperature. As I move, she leans in closer as if that's going to be enough. Thankfully, Mrs. Callaghan lives just across the street in a “house” that can barely be qualified as such. The looks of it teeter on mansion. Too much space if you ask me.
When I open the door, we are greeted by a party that seems quite lively without us. That is the norm for me. The scene is caked with couples that look around Sir's age with just a few faces closer to mine. Everyone is dressed in similar attire, not quite evening formal but not a jeans and T-shirt either. If it were up to me, it would always be jeans and T-shirt. But this pleases Mindy. With all she does, between the food and hosting, I can sacrifice putting on a dinner jacket.
Eyes drift in our direction, and the judgments that are being passed are clear. Instant. Remarks being made in their heads. Conclusions drawn. Evaluations growing, waiting to come directly at us.
My eyes see Le Le in a short, red cocktail dress—tight, low cut. Not sure she owns any other kind. While I'm staring at her, she's staring at Haven like the girl’s invading her territory, like Haven has taken her favorite toy away from her. Jealousy, it’s one of the three emotions she cycles through continuously. I don't have the tolerance for it, not now especially. As if she heard me, she shoves her nose high in the air, making a very precise nonverbal declaration of war.
Feeling Haven tense up beside me, I whisper, “Alpha,” in her ear before steering her in the opposite direction of that disaster. As much as I want to say Le Le wouldn't cause drama on a night like this, that would be a lie. She is the definition of dramatic. The bigger the stage, the bigger the performance.
Once we're further in the room, I see Sir lingering at a round table surrounded by the other men who have played a hand in raising me, all with beverages in their possession. The copper-color liquid looks a little low in their glasses. Each looks rather uncomfortable. My guess is the topic of Haven is the cause for the disturbance.
Mindy slides into our view, her body in a very short, very sharp, yet very classy little black number. Her blonde hair now falls gracefully to one side of her face with large curls in it, pearls shining brightly from each of her ears and around her neck. Her makeup looks as flawless as always. Unlike my mother was, she's always dressed like something out of a designer catalog.
“Slugger,” she greets me, humming my name as my thumb strokes Haven's arm. To my surprise, Haven draws herself out from under my touch. That grabs my attention. A gaze flows from those brown rivers that will be my demise. Briefly, her eyes flicker. The message is delivered, received. Not now. She wants me to let go. Why? I wanna know. No, I need to know. Why was it OK, yet now it's not? Did I do something wrong? Did I move too quickly? Was my touch too rough? God, this is frustrating. It's like a war with too many fronts. At times, it seems my touch soothing, at other times terrifying. It hurts. But I understand. At least, I want to understand.
“Ma'am.” I force my attention away from Haven's change in mood. Maybe it's the amount of people. Maybe it’s too much pressure. Maybe I should just get her out of here. Maybe–
“Haven,” offers Mindy like a hand in greeting, “you look stunning.”
My face turns so it's taking her in, “I agree.”
Mindy follows with, “That dress is fabulous. And you in it are just gorgeous. You know Slugger's mom had one just like it.”
A shiver runs down my back, “It is hers.”
“Oh.” The reaction rocks her in her heels just the slightest. If you weren't trained in the field of observation, you wouldn't have noticed. Her eyes trail back to me. I wait patiently. I know she wants to declare something, say something about the fact it was my mother’s, about the fact it meant so much to her, about how they would consider a stranger presenting herself in it disrespectful. Instead, her demeanor does a 180 back to inviting, back to exciting.
“You are quite the topic of discussion, my dear.” Her manicured hand gently touches Haven's shoulder. “And for good reason. It sounds like you're joining
our little family here in Reckonberg.”
My face returns to its steel default setting. That means I was right. Haven was what the look of discomfort on the men's faces was about. I hate the idea of them judging her without me around. Without me to stand up for her. Without me to declare that she is worth it. Without me to declare she's worth what they will all have to contribute.
“Relax, Slugger,” Mindy's voice cuts through the self-destructive whirlwind of thoughts. They just make me angrier, more tense. And right now, Haven needs me relaxed. Or at least what she thinks is me relaxed. I'm not even sure I know what I look like relaxed. “Everything is going to be fine. Whiskey's informed all of us.”
Whiskey, the nickname the others call Sir. It's never been stated if it's because of his name Johnny Walker or because it's his choice of weakness. I guess I never cared to ask. Most likely, Haven will.
In a small, panicked voice, choking on her terror, Haven croaks, “So everyone knows? Everyone knows I–”
“Relax,” Mindy's tone is very motherly now. It's the same she uses with me. “No one knows any details. The briefing was, for lack of a better word, brief. Actually, to be frank, most of us are wondering how you escaped. Care to clue us in?”
With that, Haven's arms wrap themselves around mine as she denies the offer. Her gentle face aims toward the ground. Poor angel. Frightened. This party, these questions are not making anything better. She squeezes tight. I give her hand a pat. While I'm glad she's back in my touch, I wish it weren't because she was scared.
“That's fine,” Mindy tosses her wine-free hand at us. “It's not important. What's important is that you're safe now.” Those words send my eyes back up to Mindy’s crystal blues, which are singing an emotion I don't recognize. She repeats, but this time to me, “No need to worry, Slugger. She's safe now.”
I find myself mouthing my gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Haven,” she calls out in a gentle tone. Once my angel's eyes have risen, she politely smiles, “Please enjoy the evening.”
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