Chapter 11
Eleven
Ky
“Pr-price?” I stutter.
He sets the towel aside and moves toward me, all lean, coiled strength and grace personified.
On the ice, he moves like liquid silk.
Off it, he’s power and finesse and—
He stops, the toes of our shoes brushing, his body mere inches from mine.
“For a kiss,” he murmurs. “I’ll tell you what the guys give me shit about.”
“I—”
God, what would it be like to kiss this man?
This man who’s so beautiful and gentle and kind and who has a streak of mischief in him that calls to the sassy little sister in me. I want to tease back.
I want to shock the hell out of him, want to lift up on my tiptoes, press my lips to his, and kiss the hell out of him.
But even as I shift forward, the weight moving to my toes, my heels lifting ever so slightly off the floor in preparation of closing the distance between our mouths—
Fear slices through me, its talons breaking skin, the grip so sudden that I can’t brace for it, so fierce it’s almost a physical pain.
Because the last time I kissed a man, he—
I drop back onto my heels, skitter back a step.
Then another.
Because I haven’t been this close to a strong, powerful man who I want to kiss, a man who could hurt me…
Not since that night.
Since that man had hurt me.
I back up further, gasping in pain when the sharp edge of the counter jabs into my hip.
“Kylie. Kylie!”
The volume, the sharpness of my name on Colt’s tongue tells me that this isn’t the first time he’s called out to me.
Then he’s suddenly in my face, reaching for me.
I flinch back. “Don’t!”
I know he won’t hurt me, but the past and present are tangled together, the nightmare too close, too ready to take over.
He freezes, hands an inch from my body. They hover there for a second before they drop to his sides.
“Please don’t touch me,” I say, my words barely audible to my own ears.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. I’m not going to touch you. In fact, I’m…going to go over here.” He retreats, putting several feet between us and I hate that the distance loosens my lungs, makes it easy to follow his next words, his gentle order. “Just breathe, yeah?”
“Y-yeah,” I manage to push out, but my eyes are filling with tears, my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.
With shame.
Why am I still like this?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper when the silence has settled between us for so long I can’t stand it.
“What the fuck could you possibly be sorry for?”
“I—” My throat closes up and I sink down to the floor, curling my legs in, resting my forehead on my knees as I admit the miserable truth, “I hate that I’m still like this.”
“Human?” he asks softly.
That does something to my heart, something I can’t think about right now. “Broken,” I whisper.
There’s another pause, longer. Heavier.
“Baby,” he murmurs.
And even though shame wants me to keep my head down, I find that I can’t.
I lean back against the cabinets, every muscle in my body so tight, I know it’ll only take the slightest push to send me over the edge.
To shatter.
“I’m broken,” I whisper. “I…I don’t know how to do this, haven’t done this since—” The memories flash through my brain like a slideshow of terror, of torment.
Pain and fear.
Struggling to stay conscious afterward.
Damon’s face.
The police who responded. The hospital staff.
The charges…being dropped.
But not those against Damon.
Oh no, the district attorney made sure my brother’s vigilante justice was prosecuted.
“Kylie,” Colt murmurs. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe.”
I hadn’t even realized my lungs are working desperately, taking in short, staccato breaths, that my head is spinning.
I suck in a breath, hold it until my pulse begins to steady then force myself to slowly release it.
“Want me to go?” he says once I’ve done that a few times.
“No,” I whisper.
Because it’s the truth.
Because this night, these couple of hours—hell, even every stolen minute on the side of that dark road with Colt has made me feel alive.
Not like I’m muscling my way through life, determined to not let the world see how fucked up I am.
To not let Damon see.
He has enough guilt.
He doesn’t need me to add to the weight he carries.
Doesn’t need to see me clinging by my fingernails, forcing myself to be the person I was.
But tonight, for a little while, I was just…me.
Not a broken girl, not a victim.
Just Kylie.
Except, I can’t even kiss the man I want, the man who has been patient and sweet and clearly wants to spend time with me without having a panic attack.
“I’m so tired of this shit,” I whisper.
A pause. Then, “What shit?”
I meet his deep brown eyes. “You know,” I say softly. “You know.”
His face, fuck it’s so damned gentle that my heart squeezes, my eyes burn. “I’m coming over there.”
My lips part, ready to protest…
But I don’t want to.
So I just nod and hold my breath, waiting for the panic to rise up again as he slowly comes over.
Only it doesn’t because—
“What are you doing?”
And now laughter is bubbling up instead of worry.
Because he’s doing the goofiest sort of half shimmy, half butt scooch until he’s facing opposite me, his back against the perimeter cabinet, his legs stretched out alongside mine.
Close.
But still giving me an exit.
Giving me laughter and safety and…fuck, now my throat is tight for a whole other reason.
“There,” he says, “that’s better, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“Now, what shit?”
I can’t bring myself to answer…but I find I don’t have to, not with the knowledge that bleeds into his eyes. “You know,” I whisper.
He sighs and shakes his head, gaze sliding from mine, a muscle in his jaw flickering. “I know,” he eventually says. “And I wish the fucker wasn’t off playing in Europe because I’d deliver a beating far more severe than what your brother gave him.”
Maybe I should protest, should take the moral high ground.
But the bastard who raped me took…
Too damned much.
“Sometimes I wish he was dead,” I admit. “But then I have a nightmare or”—I dare to meet his eyes again—“there’s a man I want to get closer to and the terror takes over and I know that it wouldn’t matter if he was dead or in prison, he’d still be here.” I tap my temple.
The rage in Colt’s gaze…it sends my pulse skittering.
But his voice, when it finally comes long moments later, is gentle.
So damned gentle I want to crawl into his lap…and then swat at his chest, reminding him that I’m not fragile.
Except, I kind of am.
No.
Not kind of.
I’m fragile. I’m breakable. I’m—
“A survivor,” Colt says gently. “You’re here. You’re alive. You’ve built a life, friendships. You didn’t let it destroy you, starfire.”
I inhale. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
He nudges my foot with his. “But that doesn’t change the truth.”
“The truth that I’ve never had an orgasm that I didn’t give myself?” I blurt. “That I’ve never felt pleasure from a man’s touch because I was a fucking virgin before he raped me and now I’m too scared to try again?”
He freezes.
Then he bursts to his feet.
It’s so sudden I flinch back, my head colliding with the cabinets.
“Fuck,” he hisses. He lifts a hand, eyes mournful. “Kylie, I—” A sigh. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Then he’s gone, striding from the kitchen and into the hall, the front door closing with a firm click behind him.
Closing my eyes, I drop my forehead back against my knees.
Well, I royally screwed this up, didn’t I?
Dinner and conversation and feeling lighter than I had in years to…
Huddled in a ball on the kitchen floor, trying not to cry.
Yup.
Go me.
Sighing, I sit there for a few more moments, waiting until the stinging in my eyes subsides. Then I gather my strength. Prepare to stand.
I have papers to grade, a lunch to make for tomorrow.
An appointment to make to get my tire—
“How can I help?”
Gasping, my head flies up, and I see Colt standing in the doorway.
“Wh-what?”
He comes over to me, slow and steady, crouching in front of my bent knees. “How can I help, starfire?”
I want to ask why he keeps calling me that.
Want to ask why he came back.
Want to ask what he can possibly see in a broken woman.
Instead, what comes out is,
“You can give me something better.”