by Abbie Roads
He moved off her and stood. It was insane, but she felt vulnerable and unprotected without him on top of her. He reached out to her, his hand steady. She grabbed on to him, and instantly, the unease that had been creeping in vanished. He hauled her to her feet but didn’t let go of her, and she was glad. Something about touching him made her feel almost normal. Was he healing her mind when they touched?
Over his heart, she saw where she’d bitten him. Her teeth had scored indentations in the fabric of his shirt, and a few drops of blood showed through the material. Why had she done that to him? Him, of all people.
Shame kept her from meeting his eyes.
“Come on. Let’s go upstairs.” His voice carried all the dread of a prisoner awaiting execution.
Her cheeks blazed with heat. Oh God… She’d been the one to put that tone in his voice. He bore the weight of his own pain. She’d seen it in his eyes the first time she met him, and for her to have caused him more suffering felt like an unforgivable sin. Like ripping the wings off a butterfly.
He squeezed her hand. She hadn’t realized he still held it. Something about that little action told her they would be okay.
He kept hold of her as he led her upstairs. She searched her mind for an apology. I’m sorry was all she could find floating around in the ether between her ears. But I’m sorry wasn’t nearly big enough or strong enough.
For the first time in a long time, she realized she was afraid.
Afraid of everything.
Afraid of the past and the future. Afraid of rejection and acceptance. Afraid of living and dying.
The only thing she wasn’t afraid of was him.
At his bedroom doorway, he dropped her hand. She froze. Unable to move. As if the reassurance of his touch was all that kept her going.
His eyes were full of anguish. Guilt swelled inside her. She’d put that look on his face. She’d done that to him. She wanted to die.
“It’s okay.” His voice sounded firm and solid, so at odds with how he looked. He motioned for her to enter the room ahead of him.
She forced her feet to move. Behind her, she heard the door close. The scrape of old metal on metal was loud in the room. The lock. He was locking her in. Another prison.
Blinding terror whipped her around. But Thomas stood there with her, holding the skeleton key. All her fear evaporated.
He put the key in his pants pocket, then met her gaze. “You’re not going to run away from this.” Each of his words was a blow to her defenses. “We’re going to stay in here until you deal with…” He paused as if he couldn’t find the word he wanted. “Everything.” Compassion warred with terrible determination on his face.
Her body began trembling, and she shook her head.
He took a slow step toward her as if he worried any sudden movements would cause her to bolt. He wasn’t wrong. Her legs twitched with the urge to run, to escape.
“Why—” His one word sped at her like a bullet.
Why? Which why did he want the answer to? Why had she gone to prison? Why had she murdered Rory? Why did she attack him? Why did she bite him?
“—do you keep running from caring and kindness? Especially after everything you’ve been through.” His tone was soft and serious, his gaze locked on her as if he expected to see an answer, but she couldn’t even understand the words he’d spoken.
Her ears heard him, but her mind got tripped up on the translation. Where was the criticism, condemnation, accusation? She needed those things. Not this.
He took another slow step toward her, stopping when he was inside her space, mere inches separating them. She was too tired to fight or resist anymore. Too exhausted to carry the burden of what she’d been through. She wanted to set it down and walk away, but she didn’t know how.
“You’ve been through some shit, and you’re having a hard time realizing it’s over.” He slid his hands around the back of her neck and used his thumbs to tilt her chin upward. His touch sent pleasant, warm tingles through her body, calming the alarm bells in her psyche. Slowly, he lowered his head to her. Was he going to kiss her? Right now? Her girlie parts cheered: Rah-rah-sis-boom-bah.
But he stopped when his forehead rested against hers, and all she could see was him. He filled every inch of her vision, making it impossible to look anywhere but at him. In that moment, he was her world. Nothing existed except him.
His scar heated her forehead where it touched her. His breath fanned across her face, sweet and warm. His eyes bored into her.
“It’s. Over. Leave it in the past where it belongs, because in this moment, you’re in my house. You’re with me. You’re. Safe.” His lips brushed against her mouth as he spoke. “You’re. Safe.”
She inhaled the words as if they were oxygen. She closed her eyes and concentrated on his voice, his hands on her neck, on the meaning of what he said. Desire to believe him warred with the ugliness in her soul.
“Look at me. I want to see you.” His voice brimmed with some emotion she couldn’t name.
She couldn’t resist him. His eyes were the night sky, and she longed to sail among the stars.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. The scars on your body are evidence of other people’s shame, not yours. They don’t define you unless you let them. They don’t own you unless you let them. They can’t change you unless you let them. This self-condemnation you’ve got, this fear you have… You’re letting them win. You’re letting every single person who hurt you have control over you, and they aren’t even here. You’re the one who’s hurting yourself.”
A tornado of terrible memories scooped her up, whirled her around until she was dizzy, and then set her back down. Here. With Thomas.
He was right.
As much as she hated to admit it to herself, she was the one destroying her life. She might be out of Fairson, but she was treating herself with the same loathing Mrs. Ellis reserved only for her. Oh God… And how many times had she yearned for violence and cruelty instead of comfort? Somewhere along the line, she’d let Mrs. Ellis, Fairson, and the Sisters into her mind. Adopted their views of her. Like if she thought of herself as terribly as they did, all the pain wouldn’t be so bad. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. It hurt worse.
Her lips trembled, and tears rushed into her eyes. She slammed them shut.
“Don’t shut me out every time you want to cry. You think your tears make you weak?”
Yes. I’m weak. So weak.
“They’re what make you strong.” The word strong resonated through her. “Your tears prove you’re capable of feeling. You can’t experience joy if you can’t experience sorrow.”
His words made a strange sort of sense to her. As though she had to feel everything—the good and the bad—or be numb. And numb would make her like the Sisters. Incapable of mercy or compassion or empathy. She never wanted to be like them.
Like forcing a rusted bolt, it took elbow grease and effort, but she pried her eyes open and stared at him as her tears welled, then hit the tipping point and slipped down her cheeks. His acceptance gave her the courage to expose her pain to him. With a simple word or an action, he could decimate her right now. It scared her to trust him that much, but it thrilled her too. Because on the other side of this suffering was a different, better version of herself. She could see that now. She wanted to live in that woman’s skin.
“Right there. That’s what I’m talking about. I see that crazy mix of defiance and vulnerability. I see you. It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
His words nestled into her heart. He knew everything—the things he didn’t know, he probably guessed—and instead of telling her to leave, instead of looking at her with revulsion, instead of looking at her with pity, he looked at her with affection.
A sob burst out of her, the sound startling for its abruptness. Behind it, an army containing ten years of suppressed emotion w
as about to break through the last of her defenses. A wild, panicked, I-need-to-run feeling came over her, but before she could react or move, he gathered her in to him, holding her tight. So tight. Holding her together when she’d been about to fly apart. “Just let it all out. All of it.”
His words were a permission she hadn’t realized she needed. She flew the white flag, surrendering to the pain, allowing herself to weep for all she’d lost, and then let her tears wash away the destruction. She clung to him—the only safe place—as the battle for her soul and sanity raged. And then it was over, and she hiccupped against his shirt as she tried to catch her breath.
His hands stroked her back, and his lips pressed gentle kisses against the top of her head. And she was different. It was hard to describe. She felt lighter, cleaner, and stronger than she ever had.
Abruptly, he stepped away from her. She cried out at the suddenness of his departure, reaching out to him, still needing the intimacy—the safety—of being inside his arms. It had been easy to imagine no past and no future while surrounded by him.
“Shh… It’s okay.” He reached for the coat she still wore, unzipped it, and tugged it from her shoulders. It fell to the floor. He grabbed both her hands in his, brought them up to his mouth, and kissed them as if he were an old-fashioned knight rescuing a damsel in distress. Then he looked deep inside her, and this time, she didn’t hide anything from him. She let him see everything.
His chiseled features were so masculine and beautiful to her. His scar a work of art that decorated his face instead of detracting from his appearance. He opened his mouth as if to say something but paused. Swallowed, then spoke. “You need to show me all of you.”
She almost argued with him that she was showing him all her dark and dirty places, but then she understood what he meant. He wanted to see her body.
She froze, couldn’t move. Her fragile self-acceptance threatened to shatter. It was too much. Too overwhelming. Too soon.
He settled his hands on her waist, his touch firm and light at the same time. “This isn’t for me. It’s for you.” He took in a slow breath, never looking away from her. “On our first night, as I rubbed your back, I felt all the damage done. And when I pulled you out of that tub, I saw your scars.” He slid one of his hands up under her sweatshirt and touched the skin of her stomach. She flinched. She couldn’t help it. It was as involuntary as breathing.
“You have to do this. You have to own and accept what was done to you, or else you’ll always carry fear about your body.” He looked upon her with such intensity that she couldn’t have defied him. And she didn’t want to. Because, goddamn it, he was right.
She straightened her spine and locked eyes with him. He gave her courage just by his presence. Her hands fumbled with the tie on the pants she wore, but she got it loose and let them slide down her legs to the floor. Her knees wobbled as she stepped out of them, but he kept his hands still on her. One on her stomach. One on her waist. They anchored her—wouldn’t let her fall.
Her hands shook so badly when she reached for the hem of the sweatshirt that she had trouble grabbing it. Not looking away from him, she pulled the material over her head, her gaze locking back on his once the shirt cleared her face.
Goose bumps pebbled across her skin. She stood before him wearing a cheap prison-issue bra and granny panties. And for the first time in a long time, she felt…a little bit free. As if shucking her clothing was akin to shucking the past.
“I’m going to look at you now.” His tone was soft, his voice serious.
Her heart thumped against her chest wall and she reached out to him. Needing to touch him. He grabbed her hand in his, and affection and reassurance surged through her for the moment they touched, then he let her go.
His gaze slid down her face to her neck, then lower. She stopped breathing and fought the urge to close her eyes. She stared hard at him while he took in the damage. She expected revulsion. Disgust. But other than a slight tic in his jaw, he handled it remarkably well.
“Turn around.” His voice was barely a whisper.
She did.
His hands landed on her hips, the weight of them, their roughness, reassuring. But then from each of the injuries on her back, she felt an upwelling of pain. As if a million splinters were working their way to the surface. It had to be in her head. Some psychological reaction to knowing that he was looking at the damage. She bit her lip to keep from gasping.
Something warm and wet and wonderful slid across her lower back, dissolving the discomfort with its touch. What was he doing? She looked over her shoulder and down at him.
He knelt behind her, his tongue gliding across her scarred flesh—licking her.
Licking. Her.
Licking her wounds. Healing her wounds. Healing her mind. Drawing all the bad out of her and consuming it himself.
It should shock her, disgust her, freak her out, but it felt so…right. His tongue was a balm to all her raw places—both in the flesh and the mind.
“What happened?” he whispered against her skin and then resumed licking her.
Not once in all her time in Fairson had she ever spoken about what happened. If she had, she would’ve been labeled a snitch. And when she stopped talking, people stopped asking.
Words filled her mouth, needing to escape. “One night…” Her voice sounded rusty and thick. She cleared her throat. “The Sisters cornered me in the bathroom. They took turns. They kept…” The memories of the gang shanking flowed out of her. As she spoke, she felt lighter, as if each word carried a weight she hadn’t known existed until she didn’t have to carry it any longer.
He didn’t jump up and down and scream and shout and act like a fool because she’d finally spoken. Instead, he kept licking the old wounds on her back until he’d covered all of them. Only then did he wrap his arms around her waist and hug her, pressing his face against the space between her shoulder blades. “Thank you for finally giving me your voice. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” He kissed one side of her back and then the other. “All better now.” And it was.
Then he used his hands to turn her so she faced him. He licked a scar that ran across her stomach. “How did you get this one?”
A low, simmering heat started in her belly. “One of the Sisters found a piece of wood with a nail through the end of it. She was trying to act like it was a sword and stab me.” A bit of victory leaked into her tone. “I actually won that fight.”
He kissed the scar. “Good for you.” Pride infused his tone. And then he moved on to the next scar, licking and asking her to speak the horrors aloud.
Saying her truth made it more real, but at the same time less powerful. There was a catharsis in what he demanded from her. After her words always came his kiss. That simple kiss a benediction of healing as if he were sealing himself into each of her injuries.
Together, they cataloged her wounds.
Then he found the scar on her inner thigh. The old shame and panic jolted through her. She squeezed her legs together to hide the damage from him, but he’d already seen it.
“Don’t hide from me now. Not when we’ve come all this way.” His voice had a pleading quality to it. He wouldn’t force her to show him the damage, but he wanted her to show him, and somehow that made it better. Put her in control. “Sit down on the edge of the bed.”
She stared at him, still on his knees in front of her. And she realized every lick, every kiss, every stroke of his hand over her flesh was him worshipping her. Telling her with his actions that she was powerful, she was worthy and deserving of his love. And really, wasn’t that the most important thing? Wasn’t he the most important thing?
She knew what needed to be done—for him and for her. She shimmied out of her underwear and bra, then lay back on the bed and opened her thighs to him.
Chapter 13
Robert Malone sat back on the old couch,
hand in his trousers, as the guy in front of him shucked his clothes.
What was the guy’s name? Robert couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter anyway. In some way, all the men Robert brought here were Evan to him. Surrogates until he got the real Evan back.
In the darkened cabin, he could see that this Evan was a bony boy. Each vertebra of his spine poked out. The definition of his shoulder blades clear and sharp underneath his skin. But then all the Evans looked like this. They all lacked the health and vitality of his Evan.
This Evan dropped the last of his clothes and turned to him. His cock had shriveled to a nubbin in the chill of the shack. “What now.” The Evan’s flat tone lacked the caring and understanding his Evan’s had possessed.
“Say it like you want it,” Robert corrected.
The Evan gave him a petulant, entitled look.
A dull thudding started in Robert’s left temple. Annoyance sizzled in his chest.
“What now.” The Evan’s voice was only slightly less apathetic.
The ache in Robert’s head ratcheted up. He inhaled slowly, trying to calm the rising anger.
Through all the years and all the Evans, he’d only lost his cool once. And never since. But now he could feel his restraint unraveling. He closed his eyes, blocked out the Evan, and focused on remembering his Evan.
This little shack in the woods had been their secret getaway. Robert had preserved it. Never changed a thing about it in all the years Evan had been gone. This was where his memories of Evan and the reality of Evan collided. As though Evan’s soul had imprinted on this little space and just needed a body to inhabit. In the arms of the other Evans, Robert could feel his Evan roughhousing and wrestling with him again—a prelude to their loving each other.
“You want the H?” Robert opened his eyes and nodded toward the white baggies sitting on the table.
The Evan looked at him with a duh expression on his face.
“Then. Work. For. It.” Robert spoke slow and calm.
“What now?” This time when Evan spoke, his tone was slightly softer.
