But parts of me were tensed, coiled too tight to fully relax in this moment, with this man. I was suddenly hyperaware of everything. Of just how loud I was breathing. Of all of my jellied limbs, tangled with his strong, muscled ones. What did I smell like? Sweat, desire? What did my skin feel like? Clammy? Too angular? Sharp? Too soft? I needed armor around him. My skin needed to be thick as marble.
It pissed me off, all of these thoughts. I was already preparing to shrink, to grow, to cut myself so I was the ‘right’ shape for him. My body tensed at the thought, my blood hot. No. I couldn’t do that. Not now. Not again.
“Why are you here?” I rasped.
It hurt to speak. Was it because I’d been holding in my screams for so long? Or because I was afraid my words would shatter everything?
He didn’t answer immediately. He waited. Kept his arms around me, tight. Too tight. But not tight enough. I needed bruises. Marks. Evidence. I needed pain. Because that was part of us. Because I couldn’t be whole without it.
I moved because he moved, reaching to the side of the bed, the harsh click of the lamp puncturing the silence between us. The light was harsher still because I hadn’t seen clearly in months.
It was shocking, seeing him after imaging him for so long. He looked the same. Better. Worse. All of his sharp angles were pointed blades. His jaw, still clean shaven, seemed to have more edges now. His cheekbones high, severe. The eyes. His fucking eyes. They weren’t empty or guarded or cold. They burned like green fire, vibrant, electric, bursting with emotion.
Because I wasn’t strong enough to maintain eye contact, to breathe underneath everything he gave with a single look, I moved my gaze to his hair. It was longer now, messier. I ached to tear my hands through it, but I was unsure now, even though I could still feel him inside me, even though I was naked—body and soul—I felt awkward. Scared that I might do something to shatter ... whatever this was. Breathing felt risky enough. Asking that question was reckless, stupid and necessary.
“I never told you what I was afraid of, though I suspect it had become rather painfully obvious over our time together,” he said finally.
I sighed in relief when his voice hit the air. Caressed my skin. It was low. Throaty. Masculine. It was something else too. It was like his eyes, unguarded, full of things that I hadn’t thought he was capable of.
His eyes kept mine prisoner. “I do not fear death, nor pain. I feared losing control. Only that. Because of my past. Because I lived a life where my body was not my own. Where my time was not my own. Where nothing belonged to me, not even my soul. I sold it in order to survive.”
His hand moved up to cradle my jaw in a touch so gentle I barely believed it belonged to this man who I’d been sure only knew violence and pain.
“At least, I thought I’d sold my soul,” he continued. “Thought there was nothing left inside of me for myself. Certainly not for anyone else. And then I saw you on that dance floor.” His eyes ran over my face. “And you stole everything that was human inside of me. Gave me back things that I was sure couldn’t survive inside of me. You took away my control. Gave me something new to fear.” His thumb brushed over my bottom lip. “You, Stella. You are what I’m most afraid of. You terrify me, pet. You’re my greatest fear. My only fear. And I’ve been a coward.”
My body shook at the emotion in his voice. From the way he spoke to me. The naked honesty in it. The shame.
The love.
First, he’d spoken to me with his body, then with his soul, the one that he thought he didn’t have. The one that he’d quite clearly just communicated belonged to me.
There was no apology. No, he’d never apologize for what he’d done. But it turned out I didn’t need an apology. Didn’t even want one. How could I expect him to apologize when he had been trying to do the right thing by letting me go? He was scarred, disfigured, broken and cruel. And he loved me. And he’d known what kind of sentence that love was. What kind of life. He’d been trying to save me from the punishment of his love.
He wasn’t trying to save me anymore.
“We’re also going to talk about the fact you were sleeping here, alone, unprotected and had the doors unlocked,” he added, an undercurrent of anger to his tone.
It was small at first, the giggle that escaped me. Then it turned into something larger. Full on laughter. Body shaking laughter. The real kind. Not the stuff I’d forced and faked these past few months.