There was damage there; that much was clear. He had even told me about it earlier. But I think it went even deeper than he had implied. Maybe he didn’t talk about it because – like my past – it was too ugly to waste time on. Or, possibly, it had to do with the fact that he had been in the Special Forces, and that a lot of his work was likely classified.
How stifling that must have been, to have to suffer in silence because you weren’t allowed to talk about it. It was very different than my own past where I just didn’t want to talk, didn’t want people to hear of all the nasty things I had put up with as a kid and judge me on it.
My prison was of my own making.
His, maybe not so much.
“This was fucking good for a first attempt,” he told me after clearing his plate, then picking off the parts of my meal I hadn’t finished. “I can’t imagine how good it’d be after some practice.”
I wanted to say that I would show him eventually. I wanted to say I would have him over when I perfected the recipe. I wanted to let him know that I enjoyed this – cooking for him, that I would like to keep doing so.
But I couldn’t do that.
I couldn’t tell him because I couldn’t invite him.
I couldn’t invite him because, in just a few short days, I would never be able to see him again.
That thought sent a little pang through my body, making my hand press into the sharpest part of it in my belly.
“Stitches still hurting?” he asked, misinterpreting the moment.
“A little,” I lied, suddenly thankful for the convenient excuse to cover what was actually going on inside me right then.
“Let me do this. You get to bed, get some sleep. It would be good for you, so tomorrow’s ride doesn’t bother you as much.”
Needing maybe some time alone to get myself together, I took myself off to bed, changing into the last set of pajamas I had, wondering how badly I would ruin the material of the other pairs if I washed them when they were dry clean only.
Then I got in bed.
And didn’t sleep.
Then didn’t sleep some more.
It was likely sometime around two in the morning when my eyes couldn’t take the pressure anymore, and drifted closed.
I didn’t wake up to Gunner barking at me that we were burning the nonexistent daylight.
I woke up to his hands on my shoulders, shaking me, demanding I Wake the hell up already.
“Easy,” he said when I gasped for air, the nightmare still clinging to the larger part of my consciousness, making my heart pound, head spin, skin feel prickly and foreign. “It’s just a dream,” he added, hand shifting from my shoulder to cup the back of my neck, pulling my body forward toward him, wrapping his other arm around my back.
I won’t lie.
Not even to save the pride I was always so fond of.
I totally clung to him in that moment, with those images fresh in my head.
Evil eyes in a laughing face as he ripped my clothes off, telling me he was going to fuck me… then fuck me with the knife in his hand. Like he had done to others.
My belly twisted, making bile rise up as I buried my face in Gunner’s neck, taking deep breaths as my hands gripped his shoulders, like I needed to be grounded, like I needed to anchor myself to him, or else I might get pulled back into the nightmare.
“It’s alright,” he said, one hand stroking up my back. Not exactly gently, his hand pressing in, giving the tense muscles underneath a little break. My air sucked in on a small sob as I fought to keep the images from flashing behind my eyes still, finding it harder than usual to remember that those things weren’t going to happen to me. “I got you, Sloane,” he added.
This time, when my belly twisted, it wasn’t pain or fear. No. It was something else. Something softer, sweeter, almost hopeful.
He had never said my name before.
My first name.
It was always Miss Blythe-Meuller when he was being a bit of a jerk, picking at me because he thought I was being persnickety or cold or whatever it was he thought of me in those moments.
All other times, it was duchess.
Sometimes as an insult, sometimes as an endearment.
But never anything else.
My name sounded too good on his lips, too intimate, too… everything.
And something in me, something buried, something I didn’t even know existed, reacted to those words. I got you, Sloane.
I had never really wanted that, needed that.
I took care of myself, in all the ways that entailed. I worked myself to the bone. I invested carefully. I made smart financial decisions. I also was my own sounding board, my own counselor, my own, well, everything.