42. Lilah
42
LILAH
I spent the weekend not even trying to hide the fact that I was wallowing. I’d been strong forever, keeping my chin up, looking for the silver lining, remembering that this too shall pass, all those dumb things that people said when they wanted you to move past your misery so they could move past it too.
I was tired. So fucking tired.
I just wanted to sleep, and I was relieved when Nolan and Jude didn’t ask me about what had happened with Matt. They’d both said they were sorry, so it was obvious Rafe had told them, but I was glad that was the extent of it, glad Rafe had done the work of telling them about the whole humiliating situation so I didn’t have to.
They were extra nice to me over the weekend, ordering my favorite takeout and ice cream, letting me pick the movies we watched without argument, and generally being agreeable both with me and with each other.
By Sunday I’d sent fourteen texts to Matt — all unanswered — and I was finally sick of my self-pity. The Bastards were working a contact with immigration in Greece who was trying to cross-reference the names of the Cantwell villa owners against flights into the country over the last year, but we were otherwise on hold with Imperium Fratrum, and since there was nothing I could actually do about it, I put on my gym clothes and headed for the basement.
I didn’t pass any of the Bastards on my way down, which was just as well. I wasn’t in the mood to talk.
During my explorations of the house, I’d learned that there was a huge office with a steel door in the basement off the garage. I’d only gotten a look at it once, when I’d asked Nolan what was behind the door, secured with a digital keypad mounted to the wall, but the room had made an impression.
There had been a whole wall of computers, plus what had looked like shortwave radio equipment and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t recognize, and I’d learned that when the house was quiet, it was usually because the Bastards were in the office. Their work was still mostly shrouded in mystery, something that was probably for the best if I didn’t want to end up in a federal prison somewhere.
The gym lights came on automatically and I started into the room, then stopped in my tracks when I noticed two new pieces of equipment. Now, along with the rowing machines and treadmills and ellipticals and free weights, there was a sparring mannequin, plus a wooden target on one wall.
I walked slowly toward the mannequin, like it might surprise me and come to life. Locke had a couple of them in the Gym, but I hadn’t used them much since we’d had real-life sparring partners.
I kicked out one of my legs, testing the mannequin with a kick to its weirdly featureless chest. It felt solid under my foot, then rocked back before bouncing forward.
I turned my attention to the wooden target and noticed there was something in the center, right in the red bullseye. I was a couple feet away when I realized it was the hilt of a knife.
I rocked it back and forth until it gave way and looked down at the weapon in my hand. It wasn’t as pretty as my Mini Osborne, or as sleek. This was a tactical knife, heavy, with a wicked steel blade and a grip made for a big hand.
I set it aside and pulled my knife out of the pocket of my hoodie, then walked back a few steps, widened my stance, and threw.
The Mini Osborne landed two inches to the right of the bullseye.
My spirits lifted. I’d continued working out in the basement gym since I’d been living with the Bastards, but I hadn’t sparred with anyone in months, and I’d never had a proper target to practice with using my old knife.
This was going to be fun.
I took myself through my usual workout, warming up on the treadmill before moving on to free weights and the big medicine ball in the corner that was great for core work.
Then, the routine stuff out of the way, I spent a half hour working with the sparring mannequin. It was always a little weird at first, kicking and punching something that looked vaguely human but didn’t fight back, but after a while I settled into a series of punches and kicks that Locke had taught me in our Krav Maga classes.
When I was panting and out of breath I stopped to check my heart rate, then cooled down with my knife and the wooden target. I’d always felt pretty proficient with my knife, but the target showed me I had work to do. I couldn’t quite get it where I wanted it to go — I was always off by just an inch or two — and I was excited to work more with it while I stayed with the Bastards.
I was loose and tired, but the workout had been the right call. I could feel the serotonin running through my body, my dark mood from the past couple of days clearing like clouds for the sun.
I walked to the target to remove my knife, more than ready to take a shower and get into some clean clothes.
“Will they do the job?”
I spun to face the voice and found Rafe, leaning against the mirrors on one wall of the room, staring at me like an animal appraising prey, still deciding whether to leave it alone or devour it whole.
I ignored him and threw my knife at the target, not even trying to hit anything specific, just trying to stuff down the rage boiling in my veins at the sight of his stupid perfect face.
The blade landed four inches to the left of the bullseye.
“Are you mad because I set this stuff up for you?” he asked behind me.
I refused to look at him as I stepped toward the target. “You can’t buy me off just because you don't want to apologize.”
"Is that what you think I'm doing?”
I rocked the knife back and forth and pulled it from the board. "Isn't it?”
I turned around, planning to walk back to the starting position and try again, but Rafe was already halfway to my position in front of the target.
His face was a mask of anguish, his eyes as dark as a summer thunderstorm, and I backed up instinctively, my knife still in my hand, until I felt the target against my shoulder blades.
He was on me in seconds, and when I say “on me,” I meant on me , the muscled planes of his body molded to mine, the hard press of his dick lighting a fire between my thighs.
He put his hand around my neck and stroked my throat with his thumb. “Why does it matter so much?”
I pushed the button on my knife and lifted the point of the blade to his neck. "Because it does.”
"It won't change anything." He seemed oblivious to the knifepoint digging into his throat, but his voice was thick with torment.
I held his gaze. “Maybe not. But it's what you owe me.”
His inner struggle played out in the storm of his eyes, his gaze searing into mine, and I felt the shallow rise and fall of his breath against my chest.
He swallowed hard enough that I felt the pulse of it against the tip of my knife. He inhaled deeply, like he was preparing for a long dive to the bottom of a dark sea. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
“Why did you do it?” I asked.
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It is now,” I said, increasing the pressure of the knife against his throat.
I wasn’t an idiot. I knew he could disarm me if he wanted to. But the knife gave me the illusion of leverage, made it clear that I had some fight in me.
He shook his head and dropped his hand, then backed away from me. “You were so much better than them, Lilah.” He almost sounded tired, resigned. “Better by a mile.”
I lowered my knife. “Who? What are you talking about?”
“All of them. All those fucks at school who ignored you or made fun of you behind your back. They weren’t fit to shine your fucking shoes and you walked around like you wanted to be invisible.”
“You didn’t even know me,” I said.
“No, but I saw you, Lilah. I fucking saw you, just like I see you now, and I knew you were better than them, and it fucking killed me that you slunk around like some kind of fucking wallflower.”
I shook my head. “So you… what? Wanted them to see me?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re not getting it. It wasn’t about them. It was about you. I wanted you to fight back. I wanted you not to take it — from them or me or anyone.”
“How was taking nudes of me while I was drunk and sending them to the whole school going to accomplish that?”
“I thought you’d fight back, okay?!” he shouted. “Maybe not against us, that night, but later, when everyone got the pictures. I thought you’d finally raise your head above the fucking parapet and say enough to those assholes and hold your head high and tell them to fuck off. Because that was the only way — the only fucking way — they were ever going to do it.”
“That’s… that’s sick.” Tears stung my eyes. “I wasn’t some kind of psychological experiment, Rafe. I was a person . It wasn’t for you to decide whether I needed to be braver or… bolder or… whatever! It wasn’t for you to push me out into the spotlight with no clothes and hope I’d dance instead of fall to pieces.”
“I know that now, okay? I fucking know. But back then I was just…”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Just what?”
“I was just so fucking sick of watching people like you get pushed around.”
“People like me?” I was confused, and I was starting to feel like there was more he wasn’t telling me. “What people like me ?”
He paced away from me and sat on one of the workout benches, then dropped his head in his hands. “I ever tell you my old man’s a drunk?”
“No, and if you think that’s going to make me feel sorry for you, think again. We all have shit to deal with.”
He barked out a laugh. “See? I always knew you were a ballbuster.” He shook his head. “It’s not about me. I told you. It’s about you.”
“Then get to that part.” I was being sucked into his story, wanting to know why he was the way he was, what had made him that way, but I wasn’t going to let him distract me from finally getting an answer to the question I’d had for five years.
“My dad beat on my mom as long as I could remember. She was like you, fierce and powerful, but she forgot all of that being married to him, getting the shit kicked out of her all the time. When I was little, I’d hide, listen to them fight, hope this would be the time she’d fight back, but she never did. Then when I got older — bigger — I tried to fight for her, but she wouldn’t allow it. She would fucking defend him. Can you believe that shit?”
I had the feeling it was a rhetorical question.
“Anyway, I got used to taking a beating, but I never got used to watching him wale on my mom, watching her shrink to make him happy, to keep the peace, watching her make herself small so he could feel big.”
“I’m not your mom, Rafe.” It came out quieter than I intended.
Nicer than I intended.
“I know, but it was the same fucking thing.” He met my gaze and I saw something in his eyes that scared me, an emotion so powerful I thought it might pull me in, drag me under, hold me there until I couldn’t breathe. Until I didn’t want to. “You shone so fucking bright, Lilah. You tried to hide it behind your hair, tried to hide it in the books you read before class started. You tried to be invisible, but I fucking saw you, and as much as I hated everyone in school for not seeing you too, I hated you more for not seeing yourself. For not knowing you were better than them.”
“So you thought you’d leak my nudes and shit would hit the fan and I’d suddenly grow a backbone and tell them all to fuck off?” I asked.
“It sounds stupid as fuck now, but like they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. And you’ve got to admit, the outcome would have been better in my version.”
“Fuck you, Rafe.” I was shaking with anger. “Just… fuck you.”
I headed for the door of the gym, my knife still in my hand, barely able to breathe through my rage.
But I never made it. He grabbed on to my arm and spun me around, then backed me against the wall of mirrors. The glass was cool against my back but it was overridden by the heat of his body pressed against mine.
He planted his hands on either side of my head and glared down at me, eyes flashing like polished flint.
“It wasn’t a TV show, Rafe. It wasn’t a choose-your-own-adventure novel where I got to try out different versions of a story. It was my life. ” I’d meant to scream it at him, to hurl it at him like the judgement he deserved, but instead it came out small and full of pain even I could hear.
“I know.” His voice cracked. “And ‘I’m sorry’ will never be enough. It was never going be enough.”
The air crackled around us, not only with anger but with a lust so raw it felt primal.
He dropped his head to my neck and I heard him inhale, felt his breath against the skin of my throat. My nipples were immediately hard, wet heat pooling between my thighs.
“Tell me you don’t want me, Lilah,” he pleaded. “Please. Just tell me you don’t want me and I’ll go.”
( Save me, Lord, from lying lips and from deceitful tongues… )
I clutched the knife so hard my hand hurt. “I… I can’t…”
He pressed his lips to my throat and it felt like a brand. “Please… I’m begging you.”
I lifted my free hand and threaded it through his hair. “It would be a lie, Rafe. It would be a lie.”
He lifted his head with a groan and then his mouth was crashing into mine, his tongue pushing hungrily into my mouth.