Chapter 32
“How was work, dear?”Oliver asks in a teasing tone as I slide into the passenger seat.
Without hesitation, I laugh. And Oliver… melts at the sight.
Damn, it feels good to laugh.
A hint of a smile on my lips, I shake my head. “Busy. Cathartic.”
“Busy?”
“Mm-hmm.” I buckle my seat belt. “Spent most of the day rearranging my office.”
He steers the car out of the lot, then takes my hand. “Definitely busy.” Weaving our fingers together, he gives them a gentle squeeze. “Get everything where you want it?”
“No. I did make progress, though.”
His thumb strokes the length of mine, up and down, over and over. “Good. Can’t wait to see it when you’re done.”
Leaning into the headrest, I roll my head to look at him. Really look at him.
His eyes may be on the road, but I know he sees me in his periphery. When the corner of his mouth quirks up, he proves me right.
Our relationship may not have picked up where it left off in July, but I don’t doubt we will find our way back to that version of us.
Time and patience.
Seven years ago, Oliver came into my life. Unbeknownst to him, he consumed every thought, fantasy, and future wish. Before either of us gave our feelings a voice, I knew—deep in my bones—Oliver and I would eventually be together.
Even then, I felt the way his eyes studied my profile, the column of my throat, my ass when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
Whenever Oliver is near, I pay attention. Always have. Always will.
Back then, I concealed my frequent stares with dimly lit rooms. Masked my desires by talking about anything other than sex and relationships. Disguised my yearning for more than friendship but kept him closer than anyone else in my life.
Now, I ogle him without shame. Touch him without fear of consequence. Love him out in the open.
Our physical relationship may not be what it was months ago, but we will find our way back to that place. With Oliver, love is timeless. Limitless. Eternal.
Although my lips won’t form the words since my return, I love Oliver Moss.
Moj zauvjek.
Mine forever.
“Dinner with my folks? Or just us tonight?” He throws the car in park and cuts the engine.
I love Mama and Papa Moss. They are complete opposites of my parents. Warm and gentle and giving. Open and affectionate and inspirational. Down to earth and accepting and supportive.
I am forever grateful for them. Not only for their generosity and love but also for the remarkable person they brought into the world. The man I get to call mine.
“Will they be upset if we eat alone tonight?”
His basil-green eyes hold mine as he slowly shakes his head. “Never.” A smile softens his expression. “Want me to go snag us dinner from the main kitchen? They won’t mind.”
I will never turn down Mama or Papa Moss’s cooking. “If they won’t mind.”
Oliver squeezes my hand then releases it as he opens his door. “I’ll be up in a moment.”
While he jogs toward the door leading into the main house, I exit the car and slowly make my way up to our apartment. Our sanctuary.
Although it quiets more each day, I still hear the boom in my father’s authoritative voice from a week ago.
“You will not leave this house.”
I didn’t want a confrontation with my family, but anticipated nothing less when I asked Oliver to drive to the estate. The clothes I’d brought to the apartment months ago still had a place in the closet. But I wanted to get the last of my things—clothes, art, notebooks, things from college. Most of it is replaceable, but I didn’t want my parents to have anything to use as a tool to lure me back.
For weeks, my father played the doting, concerned parent role well. Gentle embraces, hushed words, and frequent smiles—they were a juxtaposition to the man I’d known my entire life. It’s said that trauma impacts loved ones as much as victims. With each sentiment and kind act, I believed my abduction changed my father for good.
The moment my courage surfaced, the moment I made a decision he didn’t agree with, he tried to bully me into submission. With one ugly demand from his lips, he not only made me feel like a prisoner again, but he also erased every positive ideology I had for him.
One day, years from now, I hope we find even ground.
Jefferson Thornhill-West isn’t a bad man. He just has underlying issues he needs to overcome. At least he and Mom seem more accepting of my relationship with Oliver.
As I plop down on the couch, the door opens and Oliver comes in with a small casserole dish. Garlic and lemon perfume the air, and my stomach growls.
He sets the dish on the kitchen counter. “Linguine and clams.” From the cabinet, he grabs two wide, shallow bowls. “Snagged a chunk of parmesan too.”
Warmth blooms on my skin as I rise from the couch. Eyes on Oliver as he divvies seafood pasta, my heart pounds faster, harder beneath my sternum. He reaches for the grater and the backs of my eyes sting.
My sudden onslaught of emotion isn’t about him catering to me or stealing cheese from his parents’ kitchen. The tears in my vision and swell in my throat are for his attention to detail.
Oliver doesn’t ask me my favorite color or style of music or food dish. He doesn’t need to. For years, Oliver has watched every little thing I do. Same as I do him. Without asking, he learns all the things that matter. He picks up on my pet peeves and preferences.
When you love someone, you commit every little piece of them to memory. You do everything within your power to make them feel seen, heard and adored. You love them without reservation or expectation.
I sidle up to him, lean into him, and drop my head on his shoulder. My eyes roll closed as I inhale deeply.
He rests his head on mine and we stand there, unmoving, for a beat.
Moj zauvjek.
Pressing his lips to my hair, he hums. “Let’s eat.”
I breathe in his leather and musk scent, lift my head, and nod. “I’ll grab drinks.”
Random movie playing on the television, we eat dinner on the couch. When the last of the daylight fades, Oliver reaches for the lamp on the side table and flips it on.
Empty bowls on the table, I give him my weight and rest my head on his shoulder again. He takes my hand, entwines our fingers, and lays his head on mine.
One breath, one heartbeat, one minute at a time, Oliver replaces the darkness with light and warmth and love. For as long as we live, I vow to give him as much, if not more, in return.
My champion.
My heart.
My soul.
Moj zauvjek.
Neither of us moves as the credits roll up the screen. Were it not for his occasional lazy strokes on my hand, I’d assume he’d fallen asleep. Like me, he is enjoying the physical contact. The intimacy. The small step toward the old us.
And I’m about to pop the bubble.
Heart hammering in my chest, I whisper, “I want to go back.”
He shifts and gives me a little more of his weight. “Hmm?”
I close my eyes and inhale a shaky breath. “Where you found me. I want to go back.”
Oliver stiffens for one, two, three erratic heartbeats before he softens. “Why?” His voice is hoarse as the single word scratches my ears.
“I wasn’t in that place long, but I think seeing what’s left of it will help me move on.”
To my knowledge, the grimy, rancid prison I spent most of my time in hasn’t been located. If it has, the details are under lock and key. Which is fine by me. Not a chance in hell I’d set foot in those walls ever again.
Oliver tightens his hold, lifts our joined hands, and cradles them to his chest. His breaths come in short, fast, audible bursts. His heart hammers beneath our clasped hands.
“I…” he starts then stops.
It wasn’t just me in hell for months. Oliver existed in his own version too.
But I need this. To see the place vacant and dismantled. To know that no one else will be stripped apart by those assholes and treated as though their lives, their personhood doesn’t matter.
I nuzzle into the crook of his neck. “Please.” Clutching the hem of his shirt with my free hand, I fist the fabric and anchor myself to him.
Inhaling a shuddering breath, he brings our joined hands to his lips. “That place holds bad memories for me too.”
I’d be a fool to think otherwise. “I know.”
“You’re not going alone.” He shakes his head over and over.
Lifting my head from his shoulder, I stare at his backlit profile and wait. Minute-long seconds tick by before he chastely kisses my fingers then twists to meet my waiting gaze.
His glassy green eyes stop my heart. Rob me of oxygen. Have me gripping his hand with impossible strength. Heartache and despair shape the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks.
I release his shirt and lift my hand to his cheek. Cup his jaw and caress his stubbled skin.
I love you.Why can’t I say the fucking words?
“Not a chance in hell I’d go alone.”
“I have conditions.”
A tear rolls down his cheek and I wipe it away.
“Good.”
He sniffles. “A group of us goes.” Concern mars his features. “I don’t trust either of us to be okay.”
Valid point. My abduction impacted us both, just differently.
“Reasonable request.” I nod.
Blinking away his tears, he swallows and sits a bit straighter. “First sign you’re triggered, we’re turning around and coming home.” Resolution shapes his tone, but it doesn’t come across as a demand. Every ounce of his inflection comes from a place of love.
“Okay.”
He visibly relaxes at my acquiescence. The muscles of his jaw soften as his tongue peeks out to lick his lips.
“You tell Dr. Hampton before we go,” he whispers.
As much as I hate the idea—because she may try to stop me—Oliver is right. Plus, she may offer advice on how to approach the situation.
“I’ll call her in the morning.”
“We wait until the weekend.” He leans into my touch. “So I can coordinate with everyone.”
Five days feels so far away and too soon at the same time.
Returning to the small island off the coast is a big step toward closing this horrific chapter in my life. And his. We can’t go in without a plan. I need to prepare mentally. So does Oliver.
The nightmares that rob us of sleep each night may not be the same, but they center around the same situation.
In five days, we may be able to start healing.
“This weekend.” I nod.
Oliver twists and presses his lips to my palm. “Let’s go to bed.”
For the first time in months, I dreamlessly sleep through the night.