Chapter Twenty-eight
I ’ve never been able to stop an attack before it fully takes hold, but Dean managed to do just that. He talked me through it, got me off the edge before it was too late.
I don’t know how he still tolerates it. My anxiety leaves me exhausted, how is he not tired of dealing with them too?
We pack up my things quietly, but he remains close, offering me his presence and his comfort. My lips are puffy from the kiss, skin still tingling with the phantom whisper of his touch. And I ruined it.
Dean kissed me in a way I’ve never experienced before; he claimed, owned, and possessed me. Possessed me so thoroughly I no longer knew my own name. I wanted it, needed it as badly as my next breath. And then I ruined it.
It’s so tiring. So fucking tiring.
Folding the last item of clothing, I place it into the suitcase and zip it closed. Dean moves over wordlessly, taking the bag. “Grab anything else you need.” He says softly, “I’ll take this down.”
“Okay,” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes, “Thank you.”
He wheels the case out, and I listen as he carries it down while I grab a smaller bag to pack my toiletries and other bits I might need.
I come to my nightstand to grab my charger, and when I open the top drawer to pick up the cash I store there, I see the silver bullet vibrator lying on top of some paperwork.
It’s been a while since I’ve used it, been a while since I’ve had sex in general.
I’m a little worried I may have forgotten how to do it.
But then I remember how I felt when Dean pressed me to the wall, how my stomach knotted, and my thighs ached, and how wet I’d become feeling his hard length pressing into the swell of my stomach.
I pluck the vibrator out of the drawer and stuff it into the bag with the charger and the rest of my toiletries, knowing if I’m to be living with that man, I’m going to need it. Ensuring the zip is up so he can’t see it, I close my bedroom door and head down to find him waiting for me.
“Ready?” He asks gently.
I give him a firm nod. I still feel the aftereffects of the attack.
My heart isn’t quite in a normal rhythm, my skin is a little damp, but once I can relax, shower and change, and just breathe, I’ll be okay.
I honestly don’t know what I was thinking coming in here when Dean was taking too long.
Really, what the hell was that? What could I have actually done?
All I knew was that I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be weak, or scared, or powerless. I’d made up a whole scenario in my head that he was in danger, that he was hurt and lying injured. And what kind of person would that have made me if I’d just driven off?
So, I pushed away the thoughts telling me to run, telling me I wasn’t strong enough, or fast enough, or brave enough.
And I was scared shitless the whole time.
And when Dean grabbed me, I thought for sure I was about to piss myself, really glad I didn’t.
“You, okay?” Dean asks, stealing me away from my thoughts.
I flick my eyes to him and then see how open they are for me, how he lets me see every single piece of him and it’s too much. I know what he wants from me, and I don’t know how to give it to him.
“Fine,” I look away, hooking my bag firmer onto my shoulder.
His finger suddenly curls beneath my chin. “I think we are way past lying to one another, Butterfly.”
My eyes bounce between his and then to his lips.
“Sloane,” He warns on a low growl.
I gently extradite myself from his grip, “I’m okay.”
There’s a flash of hurt that crosses his face before he schools it and nods, opening the door for me to exit first. Him and I, we will never work.
Not only because of the whole boss and employee situation, but with our lives and our stories.
With him wrapped up in the type of danger and violence I’m trying to run away from.
It would have been nice, though.
I can only imagine what it would be like to be loved by a man like Dean.
The ride home is done in silence, my bags in the trunk, and when we pull up to Dean’s house and unload, I find I don’t like how silent it all is.
Savannah and Killian are keeping Lily until this evening, when they’ll bring her back, and being here without her almost feels wrong somehow. Like she’s the only reason I am here.
Dean helps me bring everything to the spare bedroom, dangerously close to his, and now I have to sleep every night knowing his headboard is right behind mine. There’s only a thin wall between us, and nothing stopping me from taking what I want from him.
Well, nothing but my own head.
Which is a dangerous place to be most of the time.
“Do you need anything?” He asks, lingering by the door.
“No, thank you,” I tell him, keeping my back to him as I begin to unpack my clothes onto the bed so I can put them away.
“Just call if you do,” He remains at the door, “I’ll be right here.”
And he will, I realize. I call, and he’ll come because Dean is good. Even with his job and the blood, and the death, Dean is a good man.
But still, I don’t turn to him, too afraid he’ll see it all on my face.
After a few long seconds, I hear him leave, listening to his steps as he takes himself downstairs, likely to work or something, so I distract myself by putting all my things into piles.
When that’s done, I find homes for it all and start to line up my toiletries on top of the dresser across from the bed until my hand hits the cool metal of the toy.
I tuck that under my pillow.
I put everything away, then step back and look at the room.
No color, no personality. The walls are bare, the furniture is missing that spark.
My old room there were plants on shelves, their long green stems draping over the edges, fairy lights hidden in swaths of sheer lace, and art on the walls.
I had clothes draped over the back of my chair and a million different cushions on the bed that always ended up on the floor, and a light that projected stars onto the ceiling at night.
I listened to music and read, or I followed makeup tutorials on YouTube trying to get the best smokey eye look.
I took hour long baths and sat in the rain.
I added things to my collection that didn’t match, and had more throw blankets than I knew what to do with.
I don’t have any of that now.
Not here, and not at my house. Nothing of who I was exists anymore.
“Fuck,” I growl to myself, covering my face with my hands.
And you get to live.
But how do I do that when I’ve forgotten how to?