14. Whitney #2
“No.” My denial sounds weak, even to my ears. “I know Tom. The kids know Tom.”
Immediately, my mind goes to Melissa, to her terror and torn shirt and refusal to tell on the person who hurt her. A chill skates along my spine, and I push Quake away so I can look him in the eye.
“You think he’s who hurt her, don’t you?”
“Honestly?”
“Always.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
The single word settles heavily between us. Deep down, I knew whoever hurt her had to be staff or a volunteer, or heck, even another resident, but I prayed I was wrong. I prayed that it was all a huge mistake, and we’d all look back someday and laugh at our gross misunderstanding of the situation.
But this isn’t a mistake. This is real, and it hurts.
Sacred Haven is my home, my safe place, my refuge. It saved me, gave me a family when my own didn’t want me any more. The idea that someone could abuse that trust, that privilege, is a betrayal of epic proportions.
Tears fill my eyes, spilling over my cheeks in silent streams. I try to look away, not wanting Quake to see, but he gently grips my chin, forcing me to face him.
“Whitney,” he says, his tone broken in a way I’ve never heard.
“I-I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
I close my eyes, shutting him out and internalizing my pain. “That’s my home.”
“I know.”
“Children are supposed to be safe there.”
“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but they are. Or, at least, they will be.”
I open my eyes. “How?”
His expression hardens, and for a moment, I think his anger is directed at me, but then he brushes a tear from my cheek before cupping it. “People like that thrive in silence. But they can’t hide now because we won’t stay silent.”
The conviction in his voice seeps into my bones, quiets the raging storm of emotions. They aren’t gone, but they’re… less.
I take a deep breath, then another and another. We stand there, neither of us talking or moving, too afraid to shatter the peace that knowledge has the power to bring.
After what feels like forever, Quake moves to stand next to me, leaning back against the wall. I watch him, and his eyes darken with pain.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he snaps, looking down the hall at nothing in particular.
I sense that it’s my turn to offer comfort, so I instinctively move to stand in front of him and press my palm to his chest. “Talk to me.”
He tips his head back and lets out a humorless chuckle. “I just… I finally feel like I’m getting something right.”
“I have a hard time believing there are many times when you get things wrong.”
I expect him to shut down, to push me away and refuse to elaborate, but he surprises me.
“I did once, when I stayed silent.”
My throat constricts, and my heart skips a beat. Not because of the words so much as the anguish in them. He’s giving me a glimpse into the life behind the man, and somehow I know that it’s a precious gift.
"When I was sixteen," he begins, "my mom got pregnant.
My parents were older. Wealthy. Obsessed with keeping up appearances.
" Bitterness seeps into every word. "My sister was born with significant disabilities.
" His jaw tightens. "And my father decided she wasn't part of the fucking perfect picture. "
Horror washes through me. "What?"
"He forced my mother to give her up."
"He what?"
"Adoption. Legal. Clean. Done through all the proper channels."
"Oh, Quake."
"My mom fought him. She lost.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The image is devastating and all too familiar: A mother, a baby, a family choosing convenience over love.
"What happened?"
"I spent years trying to find her." His eyes remain fixed on the wall behind me. "I was twenty-four when I finally managed it."
Hope creeps into my chest. Then he pushes me away, whirls around and punches the wall, and that hope immediately dies.
Blood drips from his knuckles. The outburst should scare me, but it doesn’t.
Quake would never hurt me. He might be violent, and he’s admitted to killing people, yet he’s gentle and loving and compassionate beyond comprehension.
"I was too late,” he sneers when he faces me again.
"She died?"
He nods. "A couple years before I found her."
My heart aches for the teenage boy he once was, for the brother who never had a chance.
"I never met her,” he says, his voice breaking. "But I still miss her."
His confession shatters what’s left of my already tattered heart. Without thinking, I step closer. When I’m confident that he won’t lash out again, I move even closer.
Quake’s eyes meet mine, and they fill with tears.
“I couldn’t save her,” he says.
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe not, but I can’t help but wonder if things would’ve been different if I’d have stood behind my mother, stood up to my father.” He glances toward the door, the one that separates us from Melissa. “And that’s why I’ll never stop trying to help other kids."
Everything suddenly makes sense. The donations, the fundraising, the fierce protectiveness and endless need to help.
It’s never been about charity. It’s been about love.
Love for a sister he never knew, love for children who need someone in their corner, love for the underdog.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for him, settling my hand against his cheek. His breath catches, and so does mine. The moment feels impossibly still, as though the entire world has fallen away.
There’s only this, only him, only us.
My brain screams at me to move, to step back and remember who I am, what I am. I don’t... I can’t.
His gaze drops to my mouth then returns to my eyes as if asking permission, as if giving me a choice. My heart pounds so hard it’s the only sound I hear.
In the span of a few seconds, I think about Ryan, about Sister Beatrice and my vows. I think about every prayer I’ve ever whispered, every question and doubt I’ve ever had.
Then I think about the man standing in front of me, the man who protects children and kills villains. I think about the man who makes me smile and laugh when the world seems impossibly dark. I think about the man whose heart is far more good than he realizes.
A realization slams into me, and it’s terrifying.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to step back or walk away or pretend I’m not feeling what I’m feeling.
“Whitney,” he whispers just before his lips meet mine.
The kiss is soft, tentative, and nothing like the dreams that have haunted me from the moment I met him. A whimper escapes me, and I lean closer to him, needing more.
Quake wraps a hand around the back of my neck, holding me in place as he slants his head to deepen the kiss. It crosses my mind that I don’t know what I’m doing, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
Needing air, I pull away, fracturing the perfect moment. His eyes are dark, and his breathing is ragged, almost as ragged as mine.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Fear enters my mind. “Why?”
“Because, I shouldn’t have do—”
“Do you regret it?” I blurt.
“No,” he says without hesitation.
“Then don’t apologize because I don’t regret it either.”