The slice on his cheek looks thick and swollen, the edges curving over a deep valley, the signs of the night's darkness strengthening the mark of pain and overwhelming emotion buried in his gaze.
I love you so much.
Let me in…
Beside me is a neatly folded towelette. I pick it up, soften it with warm water, and dab the nasty wound below his right eye.
And I've never seen anyone suddenly turn to stone before, but somehow even beneath the washcloth, I feel him harden to concrete. The emotions he was barely hiding are now gone completely, swallowed by darkness, replaced with cool, blue detachment.
My eyes fill with tears as I clean the wound. He only watches me. My heart starts to shudder with each burst of emotion, with each moment he doesn't respond. Will he always be like this?Guarded.
"Talk to me," I beg, my hand becoming clumsy as I try to clean the gash while the tears break free, clouding my vision. "Please, Sir, talk to me."
Disdain crosses his stern features when he catches my wrist, bringing it down to look at my fingers curled around the blood-soaked towelette. And something, a moment, a memory, flashes within his blue gaze.
He stares at my hand with a strange kind of melancholy that confuses me. I swallow as my nerves twitch, a sure warning to leave him alone while he's acting so chillingly unstable.
He pries my fingers open, removing the cotton from within my curled hand. It is as though he's buried so deep inside his own head right now, I'm afraid he'll struggle to find the surface soon.
"Clay?" I sob a little.
His eyes meet mine.
Then he shuts his, holding them like that for a long moment before,oh God, his forehead meets mine and he exhales hard. Riding down his breath is defeat—real and honest and painful.
I immediately cup the back of his neck to hold him to me, to accept the sentiment. Accept him. I cry for him—I know he won't—and he lets me do it while holding him close.
"A man gets used to being alone," he says, and I sniffle at the sound of his deep twisted timbre. "Then a little deer comes into his life, and she wants to open him up. She wants to let all that fucking evil out."
"I can handle your evil."
"No.You can't." He lifts his head, and I mourn his closeness instantly. "I won't allow such a thing." He leans in and kisses the tears on my cheek, dragging his mouth along the slant of mine, to my other cheek, where he breaks the streams of my sorrow with his lips. He licks a tear clean off my face. "Butchers don't cry," he lets slip, growling as his tongue comes out to lick the tears worshipfully.
And I'm not a Butcher.
Never will be.
That little statement stings, although he can't possibly know that. He adds, "I don't want you tohandleany evil for me, my sweet girl."
I start to melt, feeling the heat from his body intensify, the burn from his words gathering inside me. "Let me be what you need, Sir. I can be what you need."
"You are," he utters, his tone deep and dripping in anguish, but also a kind of volatile arousal. I shuffle closer. It's welcomed. All of him. His lips on my skin. His hot breath cascading down me, coating me.
And he’s going to let me comfort him, so I ready myself for whatever he needs, for what is clear as day in his body—
He tears himself away, taking one step backwards, abruptly ending my thoughts.
I whimper at the loss.
Steeling, he orders, "Now, be my good girl and wait in the bedroom for me."
Aurora's words resonate in me for a moment—"Just let him know he can be… when he's ready"—and they help guide me off the counter without allowing his dismissal to hurt my heart further.When he's ready."Yes, Sir."I sober my expression and respect his order, leaving him in his own company.
Entering the bedroom, I immediately slide my gown off and lay it on my pillow. Neatly. I walk to the mirror to confront the girl from the recording, unwilling to let another day go by that I am not therightwoman for him. To truly do that, I have to accept who I am, believe in myself, and see what he sees… what Aurora sees, too.
How do I help him if he feels as though I can barely help myself? How can I be his emotional rock if he's always mine?
The shower turns on in the bathroom just as I meet my own gaze. Staring at my naked reflection, my figure a slim shape with soft curves, I repeat Clay's words of affirmation to myself.Brave.