Chapter 15
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Clara’s.
Lukas
Hatred boils in my veins, spoiling my mind. I utterly, utterly loathe myself…and—yet—there are a few people I despise more. And they are the ones who hurt my Clara. My precious, precious, perfect Clara.
“More,” I whisper, voice raw.
“More?” Her blue, blue eyes hit me, wide, aghast. “Don’t you have an appointment at the recording studio tomorrow and need to be ‘on brand’ with your trench coat ensemble?”
“Recording. Audio. I’ll wear a shirt. More, Clara. Please.”
Her attention lowers to the rainbow of glitter she’s drawn across my chest. Little clouds.
Bunnies. Frogs. She’s doodled hearts. She’s colored in my tattoos.
She’s messed up trying to turn the a in her name into a heart half a dozen times.
She’s written Clara’s all over me, and I need more.
I don’t want to see my skin ever again. I want to be pretty sparkly colors.
I want to be hers.
Her pen returns to a place on my body, and I sigh as relief flows from the nib. Resting on my elbows in my bed, I toss my head back, let it hang off kilter while a shuddering breath leaves me.
Clara moves, and the mattress shifts. I lose myself in the knowledge that four days ago we were here, and she said no, and then the following day she somehow began to understand the abuse she’s endured—alongside learning that my feelings for her are violently romantic.
And now?
Now she’s back.
Back.
Here.
On my bed.
Touching, touching, touching.
Thank you, Clara. Bless you, Clara. Oh, Clara…
Gratitude presses on my seams, breaking holes in my body. From those tears, I bleed for her. She’s a song, a symphony, every precious, perfect thing.
And I am filth, staining her pure fingers.
But I cannot bring myself to care any more than I can bring myself to stop.
Her pen reaches my shoulder, and I cast a drowsy, subdued look toward it as she writes Clara’s extra bread kneader. Very strong. #glutensprocessed
She underlines processed three times, then draws a little loaf before moving to my other shoulder.
A swear chokes me when the action puts her whole body over mine, settling her chest against me. I sink down, trying to flee the seducing weight. I can’t. And she is not deterred as she draws a heart, then writes her next review:
10/10 shoulder, would recommend, but not sharing
That’s right, cutie pie. No sharing. All yours.
It hurts to swallow.
She smiles when she moves back to take me in. A little giggle leaves her, and her eyes sparkle, and she is everything. I forget myself with her. I can finally be free of the constant pound of my own thoughts in my own rotten head. Everything is vanilla and almond. Everything is her smile and voice.
She says, “You’re so pretty, King. Don’t drop your crown.”
Who needs a crown when I have her eyes on me?
“More?” I plead.
She closes her pen. “No, no more.”
Oh, agony. I remain flesh. My revolting being has not been fully covered. I must live in the knowledge that I am imperfect and wretched.
Her hand plucks one of mine from the sheets and stretches my arm out.
She examines me, then her body lowers. Resting her head against my shoulder, she snuggles in, wrapping a hug around me.
“I love being with you,” she says before my heart can catch up to the fact she is cuddling me. Unprompted. After saying no. Again.
She has grown so much…
And, yet, she has come to love being with me?
Turning toward her, I listen to the melody of her plastic pens falling into each other around us when we move. I cup her cheek. Hoarse, I say, “I love being with you, too.”
Pink rises up her neck, and she traces a heart on my body with her fingertip.
“I know. I can tell. It’s…” She mellows, lets her eyes close.
“It’s really nice, being able to tell. So…
effortlessly. Knowing I have worth to you for things that are easy to do is comforting.
” Her lungs fill. “And I know you’re trying to get me to stop equating my worth to what I can offer, but the concept that my existence alone could be enough feels more unattainable right now than the concept that small and painless things make me enough.
Believing in actions is easier than believing in things I don’t control. ”
“Healing is a journey,” I whisper as I trace the shell of her ear. “You’re making progress. All steps in the right direction, no matter how small or insignificant they might feel, are huge. You’re doing so well, cupcake. So, so well.”
Burying herself against my body, she whispers, “Please keep talking?”
I can’t temper my smile. “I’m proud of you.
You’re doing really hard things beautifully.
You are so strong.” I press my lips to her hair, drink in her vanilla almond scent.
“So good.” I hold her as close as I can and reprimand my legs for begging to tangle with hers.
I deny them the sweet pleasure. “So mine.”
Her thighs press into me, and her toes curl against me.
I mute the thrill her nearness erupts inside. “I’ll protect you while it’s scary. And when you’re not scared anymore, I’ll still be right here, reveling in how far you’ve come, ready to eviscerate anyone you deem unworthy of your time.”
“Eviscerate.” She giggles again.
No one is worthy of her time.
No one.
Least of all me.
“Cupcake,” I murmur, “I know I shouldn’t keep asking, but at the least it can be practice for you…so…do you want to stay with me tonight? I already mourn the time tomorrow when I’ll be at the studio, without you.”
“You can’t bring me?” she asks, then she tenses. “Is that an inappropriate question?”
“I’ll tell you if anything you ever do bothers me, but no question that suggests you want to be around me more will ever be inappropriate.”
Her foot sneaks between my calves, hooks, reels in, and tangles our legs. “So…I can come?”
Breathless, I say, “Nothing would make me happier.” Except, possibly, holding her all night, waking with her, then going with her. Never being apart from her for even a moment ever again would probably make me happier, but within the realm of realism? I’ll stick to my feasible goals.
“Will there be a lot of people there?” she asks.
“Just the studio team.”
“Will you keep them from paying any attention to me?”
Pleasure starts low in my chest. “Of course, cupcake… You only want my attention, don’t you?”
“Yours is safe.”
Safe. Me. When I’m one bad idea away from kissing her senseless, leaving her gasping, and demanding a different more. A more, perhaps, I might be so inclined to drown in.
Yeah, I’m such a beacon of safety.
When she makes no signs of moving for one agonizingly long minute, I whisper, “Cupcake…you’re staying with me tonight?”
“Want me to?”
“Perilously.”
“It won’t cause problems if I do?”
Her legs around mine are much too apparent. All the same, I say, “I love problems.”
Her lips curve against my chest. “Breakfast tomorrow is Belgian waffles. I don’t have my phone with me, so I don’t have my alarm. Will you make sure I get up in time to make them before we have to go to the studio?”
“I will try.”
“Should I get my phone?”
Unintentionally, my arms clamp around her, refusing to let her go. “We can get breakfast somewhere if we have to.”
“What about your family?”
“Our family can deal,” I murmur. “You’re mine.”
Which is a very safe, not at all toxic or concerning, thing to say.
When Clara snuggles even closer, I can only assume she agrees.