“Who said that I’m trying to act tough? I need to have some control here, Dalton. If I relinquish everything I’ve fought for, then Frank wins. I’m tired of being weak. I want my life. I want to do what makes me happy and that’s martial arts and working at the shelter.”
“You can do any of the regular classes we offer,” Hank chimed in and she shook her head.
“I don’t want those classes. I want the ones I discussed with you. I need to feel confident that I can defend myself. I need this.”
“You don’t know what you need,” Dalton barked at her and she widened her eyes in shock.
“Oh, really? And you know what I need, Dalton?” she asked, taking a step toward him.
“Yeah, you need to know that we’re here to protect you. You’re not hiding from anything. You have us.”
“Well, you’re the expert on hiding, aren’t you?”
“What?” he asked.
“It’s okay for you to hide behind that T-shirt of yours and not allow me access to you for your good reasons, but I can’t try to do things that make me feel confident?” she challenged him.
“That’s different.”
“How so?”
He shook his head. “How the hell did this conversation wind up about me?” he asked in frustration. The others backed away, allowing this much-needed confrontation to take place.
“It wound up about you because you’re the one causing the situation. How come I have to relinquish everything I have, my life, my freedom, my heart, but you get to keep your secrets and hide things from me?” She turned, about to walk out of the room. Dalton grabbed her arm and turned her back toward him.
“Damn it, Millie, this is different. I’m not keeping secrets. I’m not lying about anything or holding back. I love you. I’ve told you this.”
“Really? Because the way I see it, if you truly loved me and trusted me than you’d stop hiding behind your shirt.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared at him.
Dalton looked utterly angry and kind of scared. What did he have to be scared of and how the hell did this conversation wind up about his need to keep his shirt on during sex?
He stepped back from her, glancing at his brothers, who looked on expectantly.
Dalton placed his hands on the seam of his shirt and began to lift it up and over his head. All she saw were scars, long, pink lines from knife wounds or something that caused deep gashes at one time. The one from his neck crossed along his shoulder then down. She covered her mouth. Not out of disgust but sadness. He was afraid of her response. I
n that moment, he turned from her and began to walk out of the room.
“Dalton!” she called.
“Forget it. Now you know. Satisfied?”
“No, I’m not satisfied. Look at me.”
He slowly turned toward her.
“This doesn’t change anything between us.”
“Don’t pretend that these don’t bother you.” He stuck out his chest.
“They don’t bother me. It saddens me that you would think that.”
“How could you not be bothered by them? I can’t stand to see them, to remember.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Millie took that moment to open the robe she wore and point out the scar from her groin to her hip.
“Look at me, Dalton. Look at the scar I have. I know exactly how you feel. Don’t you think that every time I glance at this damn scar it reminds me of him, of what he did to me and how I almost died?”
“Don’t!” He stomped toward her, lifted her up into his arms, and hugged her to him. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t relive that. You understand, I know you do. Fucking forget it.” He pulled back and covered her mouth with his own. The robe hung off her shoulders, and he walked her out of the kitchen after he released her lips and carried her down a different hallway to the left of the house. Using his foot, he kicked open the door and laid her on the bed. This was his room, far on the other side of the house.