Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The gym smells like iron and sweat, the rhythmic slam of weights echoing against the concrete walls. My hands are raw, chalk burned into my palms, but I don’t stop. The barbell crashes down again, rattling against the rack. I load on more plates, like I can pin my thoughts with them.
Ash’s face keeps rising in my mind — tear-streaked, pale, trembling.
I’ve been keeping my distance and it’s fucking killing me.
I can fight. I can kill. I’ve done both, in defense of myself, of her, of our people and everything we hold dear.
I’d kill him, if I could find him. I’ve had long hours considering all the long, torturous ways in which I could extract the price owed for her fear and pain.
But I can’t touch her. Every time I start to reach for her, every time my hand has hovered close, my chest seizes with fear.
What if she sees him instead? Isn’t that what she said?
I slam through another rep, teeth bared. Sweat pours down my back, my face. My muscles scream, but the pain of this is easier to bear than the image of her recoiling from me.
You should’ve been there. You should’ve walked her home. You should’ve stopped it.
The voice gnaws at me relentlessly. I grip the bar so hard my knuckles whiten. What if she never lets me touch her again? What if my arms — my hands — feel like his? What if she looks at me and sees him?
The thought nearly makes me drop the weight on my chest. I shove it back onto the rack with a roar.
I sit up, chest heaving. My reflection in the wall-length mirror looks feral – jaw clenched, eyes bloodshot, shadows carved deep beneath them.
I drag a hand through my damp hair, trying to steady my breathing.
“I can’t lose her,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice breaking.
“Not like this. Not because of him.” I don’t know if I’m talking to myself, pleading with the Gods, or both.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands dangling between them, shaking. I press my palms together hard, like I can grind away the memory of another man’s hands on her.
“I don’t know how to hold her without hurting her,” I admit to the still air around me. “I don’t know how to keep her safe without risking breaking her apart.”
The silence is crushing. I’ve survived war, but her silence is killing me.
I pick the weights back up. If I stop moving, stop punishing myself, the fear might devour me whole.
Wanderlust is quiet, the doors locked, the lights dim. The scent of the aged paper is soothing. Flint is closing with me tonight. We work in silence and I find myself aching for those months where the silence was easy, instead of stretched and brittle.
It’s been weeks of carefully tip-toeing around what happened. I don’t want to talk about it. I desperately just want to pretend nothing ever happened, and go on as normal. If I can forget most of my life, why the fuck can’t I forget this too?
We’re being so careful with each other and we’re going fucking nowhere.
When I feel him behind me, I decide I can’t take it anymore.
“You’re afraid of me,” I say, softly.
His head snaps around. “Never,” he growls.
I turn to study him, appalled to feel the burning in my eyes. “Then why won’t you come closer?” I gesture to the space he’s carefully keeping between us.
I can see his throat working. “I’m trying to give you what you need.”
My breath catches in my lungs. “You think I’m broken now,” I whisper. “So you’re giving me space.”
“I think you need whatever you need,” he says, gently. “And if that’s space, I’ll give you an ocean of it. If it’s silence, I’ll sit here with you. If you need to rage, I’ll throw a shield around this room and receive it.”
I let his words sink in. He really would. He’d put a shield between us and the outside world and let me scream and rage and physically work through the feelings inside of me. I move towards him.
“You haven’t touched me. Not once since… Why?”
His jaw tightens, so tightly I fear his teeth will shatter. “Ash…”
“Do I disgust you that much?” I pause, fighting for the words to finish, to give voice to the most painful of them. “I’m not tainted!”
I realize I’m panting.
“I don’t want to be coddled. I want to feel. I want to remember to want something, someone, and to take them. To choose.”
Flint exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
Haltingly, he finally speaks. “You’re not tainted. You’re perfect.”
“Then why?”
He closes his eyes, the pain obvious on his face.
“I couldn’t bear the idea that… you’d be with me… and even for a second, see or think of… him.”
“No!” I object sharply. I draw a deep breath and try to calm down, so my words will be clear. “No. Brett — what he’s tried to do — was an abomination. He has nothing to do with us. With this.”
“But your nightmares -”
“Are just that. Nightmares. Not. Real.”
I lift a hand and brush the curls away from his brow.
“He has no place here. Not with us.”
He brushes a thumb against my cheek, searching my eyes.
“You’re in control here,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “This is your space, your power. Take it back.”
He’s right. This sanctuary of words and whispers is mine. It’s ours.
I feel a surge of confidence, a spark ignited by his words. I reach out, my hands finding the buttons on his shirt. I begin to undo them slowly, letting my fingers graze the warm skin beneath. I hear his breath hitch, but he doesn’t move, letting me set the pace.
With each button, I feel more empowered. I push the shirt open, revealing the hard plains of his chest, the swirls of ink, and lean in to press a kiss to his collarbone. Flint’s hands find my hips, but he doesn’t press or pull. He simply holds me there, his touch steady and supportive.
My hands slide down his torso, exploring.
I unbuckle the belt at his waist, the leather sliding through the loops with barely a whisper.
Flint’s breath is coming faster now, his chest rising and falling, but he remains still, allowing me to take the lead.
I unzip his pants, the sound loud in the quiet of the storeroom.
My heart is racing when I free him from his clothing, wrapping my fingers around the hard length of him.
Flint groans, a sound of pleasure, his head dropping back against the books behind him.
The sound sends a thrill through me. I stroke him gently, feeling him grow impossibly harder in my hand.
I sink to my knees and his head snaps up, his eyes meeting mine.
His hands find my shoulders, his touch light, almost questioning.
I nod, giving him permission, and his fingers run through my hair.
I lean forward, my lips brushing against the tip of his cock.
Flint’s breath catches and I smile, slow and knowing.
I take him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around his sensitive head.
His hips buck slightly, a reflexive movement, and I hum in approval, taking him deeper.
I set the rhythm, my head bobbing as I slide him in and out of my mouth, sucking, nibbling, gripping his thighs for support.
Flint’s breaths come in ragged gasps, his fingers tightening in my hair.
He doesn’t move. Part of me desperately wants him to fuck my face, to watch him come completely undone for me.
But he doesn’t force, doesn’t push. He’s giving me control, allowing me to take what I want.
I feel a surge of power, confidence. I’m in control, setting the pace, giving and taking the pleasure as I desire. Flint’s body tenses, his muscles coiling as he nears the edge, but I can feel him holding back, waiting for me. Waiting for permission.
I pull back and look up at him with a smile. “Come for me, Flint,” I whisper, my voice sounding husky. “Let me see you lose control.”
Flint’s eyes darken and he nods. I take him into my mouth again, my movements faster, more insistent.
Flint’s hips move in sync, his hands tight in my hair until he’s fucking my face.
I can feel him hitting the back of my throat.
I hum in pleasure as his body trembles. I can feel him coming undone and I fucking love it.
I’m high on the power and sensation as he comes in my mouth, the release pulsing down my throat.
I swallow everything he gives me, my body throbbing with desire and power. It takes me a moment to stand, my legs unsteady and Flint pulls me into him, his lips finding mine in a deep, passionate kiss. We stand there, entwined, the world of books surrounding us.
When we finally come up for air, Flint is watching me with a mix of admiration and desire. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. “You know that, right?”
I smile, slow. “I’m starting to,” I reply. My voice sounds strong, sure. Steady. “You make me feel… powerful.”
Flint’s hands slide down my body, his touch igniting a new trail of fire. “That’s because you are,” he murmurs, his lips finding the sensitive spot below my ear. “And I want you to feel that power, to own it.”
My breath hitches as his hands find the hem of my dress, lifting it slowly. I raise my arms, allowing him to pull it over my head, leaving me only in a black bra and panties. His eyes roam my body, his gaze full of hunger and desire.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice is rough with his own desire. “Every inch of you.”
I feel the flush of heat spread through me, my cheeks growing hot.
I reach behind me, unhooking my bra and letting it fall to the floor.
His eyes take me in, my breath catching when he takes in my breasts.
He reaches out, cupping them gently, his thumbs brushing over my sensitive nipples and I bite back a moan, arching into his touch.
He leans down, his mouth replacing his thumb, his tongue swirling.
I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him close as I arch, urging him to take more.