Broken

20. Andrea

CHAPTER 20

Andrea

Everybody Hurts - Jasmine Thompson

U nfortunately for me, my heart has different ideas than my brain.

The second I stand in my rush to reach his side, blood surges behind my eyes, turbocharging the spots dancing in my vision. Lightheaded isn’t the word.

I’m supposed to practice gentle exercise to increase my mobility, but in the past few days, I’ve done a lot of walking. There’s been stress too, and I’m supposed to stay calm.

Oops.

Pressing the back of my hand to my forehead, I scramble onward, rushing out of my bedroom and barging straight into his.

My first impression is that this place is no home. It’s another cell. Plain, unadorned. I know men like to keep things simple, but this is so bare it’s representative of his soul.

There are no pictures on the dresser or nightstand, none even on the bookshelves that line one wall.

It’s just a simple room.

Spartan.

Miserable.

He’s tossing and turning on the one luxury—a double bed.

He has to be enduring excruciating agony from the pressure of his back colliding with the sheets, but he doesn’t seem to care.

The anguished sounds escaping him, the noises he makes have a different variety of pain filling me. If I didn’t already know of the many types of agony a human being can experience, I’m looking at proof of it.

But Diana was right about one thing—he’s violent in his slumber. At this moment, my body isn’t equipped to handle that.

He doesn’t just whimper or make mewling sounds in his sleep—he thrashes. Half the sheets are off the bed, torn from the mattress. His feet kick, his arms flail like...

I close my eyes when reality hits.

Because, dear Lord, he’s trying to get loose.

I bite the inside of my lip to take some of the pain away, to release it, and the revelation hits me. Suddenly, I understand far too easily why Savio finds solace in pain.

But while I have no idea how to help him, I know I have to stop him. I can’t let him stay in the prison of his mind.

I press a hand to his shoulder, but he surges upright, his arm swiping out at me like I’m the aggressor.

Stumbling, I lurch back, and only the fact I tumble into the wall stops me from crumbling to the ground. For a second, I find myself dazed, but I don’t fear him.

If anything, I fear for him.

My brow puckers as I watch him continue to thrash, and suddenly the one comfort in this room makes sense—his bed.

It isn’t so large because he wants the comfort. God forbid he has anything that makes him less penitent. But he’d fall out of a twin.

I gnaw on my bottom lip as I stare at him, wanting to help but knowing I’m not strong enough, physically, to do so.

That crucifies me.

Deep inside, I’m wrecked because, fuck, helping him is my raison d’être.

I knew that when I went into surgery. I knew I had to survive to save him from himself.

He is my purpose.

My reason.

This goes beyond being soul mates.

This is divine intervention.

But how can I be his light at the end of the tunnel if I’m not strong enough? If my light is meager?

A broken cry is torn from him. I want to weep, want to slide to my knees at the side of the bed at the sound of him so weak.

Savio is not a man made for weakness.

He’s born of strength.

Forged of iron.

He wouldn’t have survived Algeria otherwise.

Because I don’t know what to do to help him, I move around the bed.

He’s in the center of the mattress, flailing around, but if I stick close to the edge, I won’t fall off.

I need to be with him.

I need him to know he isn’t alone.

For so long, he’s been isolated in a prison of the past, and I haven’t been here for him, but that’s about to change.

I swallow down my nerves as I kneel on the mattress. Half-expecting him to wake up, to leap for me, to go for my throat as Diana warned, I’m surprised when he doesn’t. In celebration, I release a shaky breath.

The second my head connects with the pillow, I turn on my side.

Once my eyes are on him and I’m settled atop the mattress, he calms.

That can’t be a coincidence.

His breathing evens out as he also rolls onto his side, curling into a ball so tight that it’s incongruous on a man of his size.

But he’s facing me.

The more he calms, the more I can look at him, my tears evaporating.

The dream leaves him so suddenly that I can barely believe my eyes. Like it never happened, he stretches out. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d think I was making it up.

As he relaxes, the younger Savio appears. He’s less grim, more like the first picture I saw of him that day ‘the boy,’ David McKenna, died. Not unlike that first time, my visceral response to him is off the charts.

But something else hits me before lust can settle in my core.

Without the cloud of fear, misery, terror, and anger dampening everything and my own heartache staining the world in gray, his scent crashes into me.

Absolutely overwhelms me.

His essence is sweet and pure. Frankincense and myrrh. Holy smells. But clean. Soap. Cotton. Then, a dash of spice—just a hint. The heat of before begins to boil away inside me, bubbling like a volcano needing to erupt.

I’ve never wanted a man like Savio. I’ve never experienced these feelings before.

The doctors say my delusions were so powerful that they would overtake everything else, and considering my life before, it fits that I’d find no other attractive.

Savio was an ideal.

A man I held up in my mind’s eye as perfect. He was a martyr on a mission that put him in jeopardy. He was tortured and abused for his pains. He was like a saint in my eyes, a stark contrast to the sinners I came into contact with every day.

Was it any wonder I idolized him?

Is it any wonder that now, even though my situation has changed, all I can still think about is him?

No, he isn’t perfect. If anything, he’s broken. But I was born to be his glue.

Pressing a shaky hand to his chest, my fingers brush over his pecs. The connection settles in me like he pressed his lips to mine. Yet, there’s a faint wetness that, from the street lighting, I know is blood.

The metallic tinge is in the air, shadowing his rich and musky scent, but it’s visceral. Even his blood belongs to me. The urge to coat myself in it, soak in it if it makes me smell like him is all-encompassing.

My pulse thuds in my ears, drowning out the soft sounds of his breathing, pounding deep and low in time to the one in my pussy as I let my fingers trail over the scant whorls of hair above his heart.

I can feel it beat.

It’s slow and rhythmic, as he’s in deep repose.

I want to touch more of him.

I want to explore him.

But I can’t.

I won’t take his choice away.

I won’t hurt him.

My lip slips between my teeth as I stare at his abs. His body is defined, even in sleep. I noticed before how his veins were thick and raised, and I knew that was a combination of adrenaline and pain flushing throughout his system. Now, I wonder if that has to do with how much he exerted himself.

The cuts on his spine were deep. Scored tracks on his flesh.

They were torn too. Rips and jagged edges that don’t align with a regular lash.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone used barbs for a deeper cut, for a better sting, but Savio had to push it. From what I know of the man, that comes as no surprise.

Unlike his withering soul, his body gleams with vitality. Oh, the irony. Tangible proof that mental and physical health can be as far apart from one another as the North and South Poles.

Slowly, I move my hand from his chest because I know temptation will hit me and I’ll want to touch more of him.

The need to roll into his arms, to tuck myself into him, to press every inch of me against every inch of him is so pervasive that I have to close my eyes and twist onto my back to evade the needs coursing through me.

They’re alien.

Dark.

New.

No longer attached to an ideal but to a man. A man whose touch I crave. Who I ache to explore with my fingers and mouth.

A shaky breath escapes me, making me aware that the dull throb of the migraine has faded. My body is focused solely on him.

As my chest heaves, my nipples brush my camisole. I removed my skinny jeans and blouse earlier, then dragged off my bra too, leaving behind the cami I wore underneath and my panties.

I’m very aware of how little I’m wearing.

And I’m even more aware of the powerful scent of him on the sheets.

It laces every breath I take. Is deep in the air around me until I know my skin is being caressed by it. By him.

My nipples bead, budding against the cotton fabric, rasping and rubbing in a way that doesn’t appease me. If anything, it’s sweet torture.

I can’t stop myself from snapping my hand up and squeezing one of them hard.

The sharp pain makes me whimper, and I have no choice but to anoint the other side. Pinching that other nub, I shiver, enjoying the sensation. My body itches with the need for more. Unusual and wicked urges fill me as I let my fingers drift down, slipping lower and lower until I rub them over the gusset of my panties.

Gnawing on my bottom lip when that sends a naughty twist of pleasure shuddering through me, I spread my legs some. Dragging the flat of two fingertips over the cotton makes me wet enough to feel it through the fabric.

This is wrong.

So wrong.

Wicked.

So wicked.

But I can’t stop myself.

I slip my fingers under my panties and touch myself. The caresses have another low whimper escaping me.

And that’s when it all goes to hell.

Fingers snap out and grab a firm hold of my wrist. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

I jerk in response to both his words and his touch, even as I twist my head to look at him.

My hips rock of their own volition, loving the feel of his skin against mine.

When he notices, he scowls. “Stop that!”

I bite my lip and force myself to come down, to calm down.

Closing my legs, I pull my hand away from my thighs, and I’m not altogether surprised when he keeps a tight clasp on it.

He doesn’t trust me not to do it again.

I don’t blame him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I can’t help it,” I whisper, and I know my eyes are big as I stare at him in the low light. The streetlights that revealed the blood on his chest pour an orange glow through the windows, illuminating us both in their golden hue. “You’re so beautiful, Savio. How could I not?”

His mouth works for a second. Though he’s furious and his anger has his arms all bunched up, his stomach muscles tensing as if he’s ready to throw me off the bed, my statement has him flopping back against the mattress.

“What am I going to do with you?” he rasps, shaking his head, rocking it so his hair tangles on the cotton pillow beneath him.

“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell him softly. “Just let me be here.”

“This is wrong,” he counters, and his hand tightens about my wrist before he starts to let go.

This time it’s me who moves.

My free hand darts out and I grasp his wrist just as he clutches mine, holding him there, not wanting the connection to drop.

“I need you, Savio, and I think you need me.”

He doesn’t seem to be listening to me, though, because he grumbles, “You have blood on you.”

“You’re bleeding all over the place.” I shrug. “What’s a bit of blood between soul mates?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”

“Good.”

Maybe he hears my jealousy because he snorts. “I didn’t mean that as a compliment, Andrea.”

Immediately, tension seeps out of me.

That tone… He’s not going to force me to leave.

Not yet, anyway.

And as relief fills me, it’s nothing to the delight that blossoms deep inside my being at hearing him say my name for the first time.

“I’m taking it as a compliment,” I rasp before forcing myself to say lightly, “There’s only one of me. God created perfection and he didn’t want to make everyone else envious.”

“Bigheaded as well as crazy.”

“I don’t think it’s too big to get through the front door.”

“Praise be to God for that.” Neither of us move our hands. At least, that’s until his thumb shifts—flattening out against my pulse point. “What are you doing in here?”

“I heard you call out in your sleep.” Any amusement in me fades at the memory of his pain. “Y-You calmed down when I came in and I didn’t want to leave you.”

His scowl returns before he hisses out a breath. “Night terrors.”

“Do you get them often?”

He doesn’t answer, but he grows still. “Please, tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

I can feel the tension in him as if it throbs through the blood-soaked mattress.

Maybe it does.

Maybe because his blood is touching me, it’s a conduit to him. To his soul.

I like the idea, and I turn my face into it, knowing it will turn my cheek rosy with him.

“You pushed me away, but you didn’t hurt me.”

He releases a shaky breath, one loaded with relief, then he catches me humming as I rub my cheek into the fabric beneath us.

Though his scowl is back once more, he doesn’t stop me. Instead, he asks, “What hymn is that?”

“ Au c?ur de ma vie ,” I answer easily, wondering why he asks when he has to know it.

“That used to be my favorite.”

His thickly uttered response has me whispering, “I learned it for you.”

“You sing?”

“Not so much now.” I clear my throat. “I used to be in a choir at our church.”

“You weren’t lying about being Catholic?” he questions, his surprise clear.

I huff, annoyed he didn’t believe me. “I haven’t told you a single lie, and I won’t either.”

Something shifts in his eyes, but a smile blossoms on his lips. “You’re truly unique, aren’t you?”