Chapter 15 Isolde #2
He is so gentle I want to scream.
When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, looks up at me, and says, “You’re safe now.”
I don’t believe him. But I want to.
He stands, rummages in the closet, and tosses me a sweatshirt. It’s his, the sleeves too long, the body too wide. I pull it over my head, breathing in the boy-and-mint smell.
He sits on the bed beside me, not touching, just watching.
For a long time, we sit in silence.
Finally, he says, “I’m not going to hurt you again.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.
His chest heaves in a big sigh, “I want you to stay.”
I snort. “You’re not exactly giving me a choice, Grey.”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean, I want you to stay. With me. Because you want to.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I pull the covers up to my chin and stare at the ceiling, willing the world to slow down for just a minute.
He lies beside me, on his back, arms folded. Not touching, not crowding, just there.
After a while, the pain in my body dulls to a throb. All my swirling emotions fade to a background hum.
I let myself drift, just a little.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, I don’t dream of drowning.
I dream of the boy with the broken smile, and the feel of his hand around my ribs, gentle enough not to break me.
And I dream of a future where I’m not prey, or predator, but something new.
Something that might survive.
I’m not sure if I sleep or just pass out, but when I surface, he’s still there, but now he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg jiggling.
There’s a bruise blooming down his arm, a cut at his eyebrow, blood dried on the side of his neck.
He looks less like a wolf and more like a college kid who got hit by a bus.
He didn’t even leave me long enough to clean himself up.
He’s staring at the wall, eyes fixed, not moving. For a moment, I’m sure I’m dead and this is hell, but then he glances down at me and all the guilt in the world fits into that one look.
“You’re awake.”
I try to sit up, and the pain brings me back to earth. “You didn’t even shower.”
He doesn’t smile. “I don’t want you to wake up alone.”
“Ha.”
“I’m sorry,” his hand comes to rest on my thigh over the blanket. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
I don’t want his apology. I want to throw it back at his face, rip out the part of me that almost believes it.
But when he looks up, there’s something in his eyes I don’t know how to fight.
He traces the bruise on my collarbone with one finger, then lets his hand fall to his lap. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“Only when I move,” I lie.
“Try not to.”
He doesn’t move, just sits there, staring at the curve of my neck. His eyes are fixed, hungry, but not for flesh. It’s something else, something I don’t have the words for.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, and tuck my face into the crook of my elbow.
He says, “I never wanted to hurt you.”
I look up, glare at him through the mess of my hair. “You could’ve fooled me.”
He doesn’t defend himself. Just sits, hollowed out.
He breathes in, then out. “Casey didn’t deserve what happened. But you—you don’t deserve any of this either. I just—I didn’t know how else to keep you safe. The Hunt—it’s rigged. If I didn’t claim you, they wouldn’t take mercy on you. There’s no escaping. Not for me. Not for any of us.”
I wait for the punchline, the “it was all for your own good,” but he just lets the words hang there, like he knows how pathetic they sound.
“I’m not Casey. I’m not weak.”
He nods. “I know.”
He brushes the hair from my face, thumb grazing my cheekbone. His hand is warm, rough, but it doesn’t hurt.
“I can say I’m sorry forever, and I will if that’s what it takes, but you’re either gonna believe me or you’re not. There’s not much I can do about it either way.”
I want to say something, to tell him to fuck off, but the anger is gone, replaced by a weird, empty ache.
He stands, pacing the room, hands twisting. “If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
I laugh, broken. “I can’t even walk properly.”
He kneels in front of the bed, face level with mine. “Then stay. Just for now. Please.”
The please throws me. He’s never asked for anything before.
He reaches out, hesitates, then rests his hand on my knee. His eyes are wild, desperate, like he’s the one running from something.
He whispers, “I don’t know how to fix this.”
I don’t either.
So I do the only thing that makes sense: I grab his shirt, pull him in, and kiss him.
It’s not like before. There’s no violence, no hunger. Just lips against lips, the slow need of wanting something you shouldn’t.
He kisses me back, slow, like he’s afraid to hurt me. His hands cradle my face, thumbs tracing the line of my jaw.
I let him.
He lays me back, careful not to jostle my wounds, and covers my body with his. He’s warm, heavy, the weight of him a comfort.
He kisses down my neck, stopping at each bruise. He lingers there, tongue gentle, lips soft. His hands never roam, never push.
He waits for me to move first.
I slide my hand over his body, feeling the scars on his back, the hard lines of muscle. He shivers, then presses closer.
He peels the sweatshirt over my head, slow, and pauses at the sight of my bandaged arms, the gauze on my shoulder. His mouth tightens, but he keeps going.
He kneels, giving me space to make sure this is what I want. His chest is a mess of old wounds, some faded, some fresh. Leaning forward, I trace them with my fingers, and he closes his eyes, breathing hard.
He slides his hands up my thighs. He kisses each mark, scar, scrape, one by one, like he’s trying to erase the pain.
He moves slow, waiting for me to tell him no.
I don’t. Instead, I pull my underwear to the side and watch as he pops his dick out the hole in front of his boxers. Grabbing him, I pull him towards me and he’s careful not to jostle me too much as he moves forward, settling between my legs.
He lines his cock up with my entrance, but doesn’t push in. He waits, eyes locked on mine.
“Is this okay?” he whispers.
I nod, and that’s all it takes.
He enters me, slow, careful, never breaking eye contact. He fills me, but doesn’t move, letting my body adjust around him.
He brushes the hair from my face, kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, my jaw.
He fucks me like I’m something precious, and I hate him for it.
But I don’t stop.
He moves inside me, each thrust slow, deliberate, the opposite of last night. There’s no pain, just a slow build of pleasure, a heat that burns away the ache.
He wraps his arms around me, holding me close. His chest is slick with sweat, his mouth everywhere at once.
I arch up, biting his shoulder, and he groans, the sound raw.
He picks up the pace, but never too much. He reads my body, matching every gasp, every moan, every whimper.
He quietly says my name, over and over, like it’s a chant he needs to keep me here, to tie me to him.
He comes first, shuddering, then buries his face in my neck. He stays there, breathing hard, refusing to let go. His fingers move low, circling my clit as he works me, his cock half hard inside me as I come around it, the orgasm a gentle wave rather than an all consuming blaze.
It feels nice. Being fucked like a lover rather than a savage beast.
I run my hands through his hair, fingers twisting in the strands.
We stay like that, tangled, for what feels like hours.
When he finally rolls off, he keeps one hand on my stomach, thumb stroking the skin just above my hip.
He says nothing.
Neither do I.
But the silence is different now.
It’s full.
He falls asleep first, face buried in my hair, his hand still wrapped around my waist.
I watch him breathe, counting each rise and fall of his chest.
It hurts me when I realize that I don’t want to run.
I want to stay.
Just for a little while.
Just until the pain goes away.
Maybe longer.
I lie flat, staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind my head, the other draped over his bare shoulder.
He’s now curled into my side, face buried in my armpit, like a child hiding from monsters.
I run my hand down his back, feeling the raised lines of old scars, the places where the skin never healed quite right.
Some are thin, white, almost invisible; others are thick, jagged, the product of years of violence and survival.
I trace them, one by one, wondering what story each tells. How many times has he been the hunted? How many times did he bleed for someone else, or because of someone else? How many times did he pretend not to care, just so he could care more?
More importantly… who the fuck did this to him?
He stirs, nuzzles closer, and tightens his grip around my waist. He’s heavier than he looks, a dead weight, like he’s using me to anchor himself to the world.
It’s so sweet, it almost makes me want to protect him from whatever is haunting his nightmares.
It almost makes me want to forget that he’s the reason I’m here.
The reason Casey isn’t.
My fingers move up despite my warring emotions, finding the nape of his neck, the place where his hair curls against his skin. I scratch lightly, and he sighs, shifting just enough to expose the curve of his jaw. He is so beautiful, angelic almost, it makes something twist in my chest.
If he stays asleep, I can imagine he’s never done a bad thing in his life.
But then he breathes out, and I hear the hitch, the catch, the edge of a nightmare lurking just behind his eyelids.
I want to ask what he’s dreaming about. I want to wake him, shake him, make him look me in the eye and tell me why he does the things he does.
But I don’t.
Instead, I pull him closer, pressing my lips to his forehead. He doesn’t move, doesn’t wake.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, the dust motes spinning in the sunbeam that slips through the broken curtain.
I should hate him. I should want to run, to rip out the part of me that wants him.
But I can’t.
The truth is, I like the way his arms feel around me, the way his breath warms my skin, the way his scars line up with mine.
I like it too much.
He mumbles in his sleep, something I can’t make out. His hand tightens on my stomach, pulling me closer. I curl into the warmth, letting the world spin around us.
For a while, it’ll enough.
I count seconds, breaths, heartbeats.
I wonder what comes next.
I wonder if this is what it means to survive.
My hand finds his, flat on my belly. I lace our fingers together, and squeeze.
A promise.
Or a warning.
I close my eyes, and let myself drift.
My thoughts empty of everything. The anger, the bitterness, the rage. The burning desire to get revenge for something that he probably didn’t have a choice in.
Instead, I dream of him.
And I wonder if that’s enough to make me whole again.