35. TESSA
TESSA
My fingers hovered over his chest, just like they had that day I’d found his scars. The tattoos were gorgeous. An artful maze of elements flowing together, telling a new story, but beneath them, I knew every ridge, every line of the original chapter.
“No one else knows what’s under there, do they?” I asked softly.
“No.” Blake’s thumb traced the raised line along my collarbone, and something shifted in his expression—that familiar crease between his brows that always meant he was wrestling with something. “Tess, do you remember telling me about this?”
His question, its implications, stole the air from my lungs.
“What?”
“When you were sedated,” he said quietly, his gaze tentatively navigating from my left eye to my right, “you told me what happened that night.”
My head spun. The bathroom walls seemed to close in, steam suddenly too thick to breathe, and in the span of a few heartbeats, several emotions charged through my veins.
Panic. Pure, premium, grade-A panic. This was the secret I’d guarded for years, planned to take to my grave. I’d spent a tremendous amount of energy hiding it from everyone, from the clothes I chose to the topics I avoided.
Every family gathering had this pulse, threatening to shatter the unbroken image my family had of me.
Family dinners were a tug-of-war between the mundane in front of me and the horror in my head.
Tess, can you pass the potatoes? He throws me on the bed.
Tess, do you need a refill, dear? He rips my shirt.
Tess, how is your semester going? He shoves his sweaty hand over my mouth, as if anyone could hear me scream over the bass of the music, thumping through my body like a warning. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Crashing right behind panic was shame because I knew better. The mistakes I’d made that night that put me in his room, that gave him the ability to try and …
I was so much smarter than that. I’d seen enough news stories, thank you very much.
Which leads straight into anger . Women shouldn’t have to be warned—constantly—about the dangers of men.
Maybe, just fucking maybe, if police had—oh, I don’t know—arrested that guy, he’d have been deterred from doing it again.
I bet he’d done it before and then did it again after.
Based on his creepy letters, he was probably still doing it to this day, and how many women came forward, asking for help?
Why would they bother? Where did it get me without some smoking gun?
In fact, last I researched, out of a thousand sexual assaults, it was estimated that only six resulted in the perpetrator being incarcerated.
Six. Out of a thousand. If my math was right, that meant these assailants had a 99.
4% chance of getting away with it scot-free.
Why the hell wouldn’t some asshole go around raping women?
I really hoped those statistics were wrong.
And then the hardest emotion hit. Sadness. Less so for me. My attack was interrupted. I had the privilege of having access to therapy. I got better. But my sadness was for the other victims who had it much worse than I ever did.
Which would then make me feel guilty. Why did I get away? Why did I get off so easily when others didn’t?
“Tess. Breathe.”
It wasn’t until this moment that I realized I was hyperventilating.
“Sit.”
He guided me to the toilet—seat down at least—and squatted in front of me while I had, well, whatever the hell this was.
“Head between your knees.”
I complied while he rubbed my back.
“I’m sorry,” Blake said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I felt like it was a lie, pretending I didn’t know.”
His words anchored me, giving me something to focus on besides the chaos in my head. In. And out. The gentle pressure of his palm matched my breathing rhythm, the vise around my chest slowly loosening.
When my lungs finally remembered how to work properly, I attempted to stand, to escape this moment of weakness, but Blake’s arms caught me as I swayed.
The concern in his expression made me feel absurdly delicate, less like an able-bodied adult and more like a baby giraffe standing for the first time.
I couldn’t meet his stare though. Couldn’t bear to see pity or horror in those eyes that had always looked at me like I was unbreakable.
“I didn’t know what I was saying,” I claimed, looking at the ground. “I was drugged.”
“You don’t need to hide from me.” His voice carried the weight of old wounds, and his finger tilted my chin up until I met his eyes. “Not from me, Tess.”
“Well … it was a long time ago.” The words felt hollow, rehearsed from years of telling them to myself.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“I can feel you pulling away. Don’t shut me out.”
I tried to turn away again, but his hold on my arms was sure.
“Did you look at me differently after you saw my scars?” His question held an edge of challenge.
“That was different.”
“Was it?” His thumb brushed my cheek. “You said you saw me as a warrior. It wasn’t until I saw your scar that I finally understood what you meant.”
Something in his voice made me look up. The understanding in his eyes—not pity, not horror, just pure recognition—melted the ice that had formed around my chest. The steam wrapped around us like a cocoon, and I felt the fortress I’d built start to crack.
“You see me as a warrior?” It was so anti-feminine, caring this much what a man thought of me. But this wasn’t just a man. This was Blake. My Blake.
“More than you can imagine.”
Do not cry. You’ve done so much crying that you could seriously charge for water.
Blake dragged his knuckles down my jaw, looking heartbreakingly pained.
“I’ve been going through every memory,” he said, “trying to pinpoint when this happened to you. Then, today, it hit me. That weekend Ryker and I were home from college for your dad’s birthday.
You came in late, went straight to your room.
Ryker thought it was just some boyfriend-breakup drama, but …
” He set his jaw tight. “Something felt wrong. After Ryker fell asleep, I went to your door.”
“I told you to go away.” The memory surfaced, sharp and clear.
“But I could hear you crying. It was … brutal to hear your pain. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just …” His voice roughened. “I sat outside your door. All night. Just in case you needed me.”
The sob that escaped my throat surprised us both.
I had no idea that when my palm had been pressed against that door, wishing he was there, he actually was.
I remember the confusing thoughts and feelings that first night and how I wanted to tell him what happened.
Him, only him. Wanted his arms wrapped around me, my face buried in his chest as he assured me everything would be okay.
And I remember how I’d wanted to tell him that I went down swinging.
“I fought back,” I said, the words tumbling out.
“When he got interrupted, I grabbed a bottle. I got cut, but I got away, and later …” My voice cracked.
“Later, I remember thinking you’d be proud of me for fighting back.
” I smiled. “Isn’t that pathetic? That I wanted you to be proud of me for that? ”
Blake’s chest rose sharply. “I am proud of you. And I wish you’d let me in that night.”
“I almost did.” The confession felt like letting go of something heavy I’d carried for years. “I wanted so badly to just … feel enveloped by your warmth.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, like it pained him to hear that I’d been suffering. “Why didn’t you?”
“I was overwhelmed, processing it all. And I couldn’t let Ryker find out, so I just …” I swallowed hard. “I pressed my hand against the door, wishing …”
“I was there, Tess.” His voice was rough. “Right there on the other side. The whole night.”
It was strange how history, in that moment, actually rewrote itself.
Thinking about the darkest night of my life, I’d always remembered how alone I felt.
Scared. Violated. But knowing now that Blake had been there with me, a mere three inches from my palm, it changed something about that night. It lessened its darkness somehow.
I’d always known I could trust Blake—him, with his own scars, his own battles—to understand in a way no one else ever would.
“You always made me feel safe.” My fingers found his jaw, traced the familiar line of it.
Blake pulled me to his chest, wrapped his arms around me, like I’d longed for him to do that night. His chest was just as warm as I’d imagined it would have been. A sanctuary where nothing existed except his skin, the beat of his heart beneath my ear.
“I wish you would have trusted me with it back then.” He kissed the top of my head. “I wish I’d held you because I would never have let go.”
Never let go? What exactly did he mean by that? It felt significant.
As significant as these raised scars, which also ran along his back. Here was someone who understood both strength and vulnerability, who’d seen my worst moments and still looked at me like I was something precious.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”
The moment stretched between us, heavy with years of almosts and not-quites. Steam curled around us, and I became acutely aware of everything: the cling of fabric to my wet skin, the warmth radiating from his, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
Pulling back, Blake dropped his eyes to my mouth, lingering there with an intensity that reminded me why he was the one I wanted to run to that night.
Ghosting his thumb along my lower lip, he stared at my mouth with unmistakable longing, and instantly, I could feel the heat of him everywhere.
But there was something else in his eyes.
Doubt? Fear that kissing someone with my history might be triggering?
I wanted to tell him I was fine. At least in the sex department, I was, thanks to the aforementioned therapy. But I didn’t have the chance.
He gave me a weak, reassuring smile before stepping back, being way too much of a gentleman for the thoughts currently charging through me.
Thanks, hormones.
After a moment, he swiped his thumb across his lip.
Not helping with the throbbing between my thighs.
“I’m glad you’re here, Tess.” He motioned to the shower with his chin. “If you need anything …” The words hung there, weighted with possibility.
And then he left, looking at me over his shoulder one last time before vanishing into the penthouse’s hallway.
It took a serious second to shake off the I-almost-kissed-Blake-Morrison moment. My lips still tingled with the ghost of possibility, sending my mind spinning through endless what-ifs.
But on the upside, it seriously improved my mood.
My steps felt lighter as I showered, dressed, and adjusted the heart pad device—the one Blake always reminded me to keep on. Where was he now? Probably at the hospital, reviewing patient charts, maybe thinking about our moment. Or maybe not thinking about it at all.
I distracted myself with unpacking, sorting through the mail I’d brought. Bills mostly. Healthcare, to be specific. Then one envelope stopped my heart cold.
I tossed it onto the dresser like it was an infectious spider.
Seconds later, my phone buzzed, making me jump. A smile tugged at my lips when I saw his name, my shoulders instantly relaxing. Even through text, Blake had a way of making me feel safer.
Blake: You okay?
Me: Why wouldn’t I be? And where are you?
Blake: In my car. Your heart rate spiked.
Me: You’re watching my heart rate?
Blake: You knew about the monitor.
Me: For my CARDIOLOGIST. Also, isn’t that considered texting while driving? #Dangerous. Don’t you work in an ER where crash victims are taken?
Blake: Answer the question.
Me: Saw a spider. No big deal.
Blake: I’ll call an exterminator. The humane kind that won’t make you sicker with chemicals.
Me: That’s overkill.
Blake: Fine. I’ll help the spider fill out a rental application.
I caught myself smiling. This was one thing I loved about Blake. He’d let me have my deeply emotional moments, he’d let me freak out and panic, but then he’d slide back into his normal self. Wonderful, sarcastic, normal him.
This was why I felt safe with him.
The joy of that realization almost made me forget about the envelope waiting like a bomb on my dresser. A smarter person would stop opening them. But since the police refused to take action, these twisted letters were my only window into my tormentor’s increasingly unstable mind.