Chapter 14
Fourteen
River
Thorn’s apartment is quiet, almost too quiet, a stillness filling the vast space, the city sparkling in the distance through those floor-to-ceiling windows.
Almost as though he inhabits the space but doesn’t actually live here.
The overhead lights are dimmed.
One of my DVDs is playing on his giant TV—this one a dramatic space opera that I normally love but tonight is struggling to hold my attention.
Probably because I was kidnapped yesterday.
Or perhaps because Violet keeps periodically attacking the drawstring on my hoodie.
Or it’s neither of those because it’s Thorn himself who keeps drawing my focus.
It’s almost as though the quiet emptiness exists in him too. As if he doesn’t really live at all. It’s displayed in the careful control of his movements, his words, the way he interacts with me, with Violet. In the strange stillness that settles over him at times.
And in the haunted expression that drifts across his eyes.
Like something important was stolen from him and he’s never gotten it back.
“You’re not watching the movie,” he says from the opposite end of the couch.
I blink. “I am, too.”
“You’re a pretty liar, little hen.”
My eyes narrow. “I know exactly what’s happening. They’re about to launch an attack…”
His mouth quirks. “You only know that because you’ve seen this before.”
He’s not wrong.
I’ve seen the film dozens of times.
“But also,” he says, turning to face me, careful to not dislodge a now-dozing Violet who’s curled up between us, “the battle happened twenty minutes ago.”
I freeze.
Then turn to the screen and scowl as I see he’s right—the heroine is currently threatening the bad guy with a laser blaster while standing in the middle of a spaceship.
Well after the cinematic battle.
Damn.
Thorn chuckles before his attention shifts back toward the television, his expression growing serious.
“She’s not going to shoot him,” he says finally.
“You don’t know that.”
“She’s in love with him.”
Damn again.
He’s right about that too.
“Have you seen this movie before?” I ask—and yeah, it’s accusatory.
His eyes hit mine. “No.”
I wrinkle my nose and he chuckles again…right before the heroine puts down the blaster. “Just saying,” I mutter. “She should have shot him.”
Then again, if she had, the two sequels would have been shit.
His eyes slide toward me slowly. “That’s…concerning.”
“Well”—I shrug—“sometimes a laser blast to the junk will do a man good.”
He freezes…then the most wonderful thing happens—
He laughs.
Loud enough and long enough that Violet rouses herself and climbs onto his chest, batting at his face like it’s the most wonderful sound she’s ever heard too.
Gah. This man is dangerous. To my heart. To my soul. To all the risks I promised myself I’d never take again.
“Meow,” Violet says as he strokes a hand down her back. She takes her rightful affection for a second before abandoning him and walking over, curls up in my lap.
“She likes you more than me now,” Thorn says quietly.
I glance toward him, lips curving. “It’s the gourmet salmon treats.” I’d gone a little crazy with them this afternoon.
He chuckles. “Probably.”
My laugh escapes before I can stop it and I feel Thorn’s gaze on me. It’s somehow both soft and not, as though phantom fingers are tracing the edges of my smile.
Clearing my throat, I glance back at the movie, watch as the heroine escapes, as the bad guy does bad guy things. “Can I ask you something?”
His attention sharpens instantly. “Anything.”
The simple certainty in the word catches me off guard.
I swallow once, look back over at him. “What was Scotland like?”
For a second, real surprise flickers across his face. “What do you know about Scotland?”
“I mean, nothing really. I’ve never been. But you grew up there, right?” A shadow passes through his expression. “Your accent—”
He leans back against the couch, stare pointed out the windows. “Yeah. I grew up there. For part of my childhood, anyway.”
I wonder what he means by part but I don’t push him on it. “Did you like it?”
“It rained a lot,” he says after a moment. “And it was so windy that sometimes I felt like I’d get blown over. And in the summer there were these bugs called midges…” He shakes his head and sighs, his eyes very far away. “And it was the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.”
“When was the last time you visited?”
Those green eyes come to mine, the shadows heavier than normal. “I haven’t been back since I was twelve.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache unexpectedly.
“You miss it.”
A long silence.
“Yes.”
I study him carefully.
Weeks ago, it would have been hard to imagine him as anything but the man I thought I knew—the powerful and taciturn businessman. But with him sitting beside me, his hair mussed, his feet bare, cat hair on his sweats, and I find the image of a younger Thorn slides easily into my mind.
I can picture him standing in front of a castle, wind blowing through his hair, storm clouds overhead.
But even in that younger Thorn, I sense a wealth of sadness.
What had happened to him? What had wounded him so deeply?
“Do you ever think about going back?” I ask.
“No.”
The answer comes instantly and it’s final.
Not angry. Just…certain.
I nod slowly as understanding flows through me. Because there are some places people can never return to, some places that one must simply survive and never look back on.
God, I understand that too well.
Thorn’s gaze locks with mine. “Your turn.”
My stomach tightens immediately and I want to run…or at the very least, to avoid this conversation.
But as I battle with myself, Thorn just waits.
There’s no pressure. No demands. Just patience.
Ugh.
Why does he have to be so wonderful?
Exhaling, I stare down at Violet sleeping across my lap and give him a small part of my past. “My ex used to hate movies,” I whisper. “He said they were childish.” I shake my head. “That fiction books are too.”
Only the driest of the most dry nonfiction and war biographies were acceptable to Preston.
Everything else was just trash.
I was just trash.
Thorn doesn’t reply, but I know he’s paying absolute attention.
So, I force myself to keep talking. “He didn’t like a lot of things.” I laugh, but it’s humorless, edged with the painful memories. “Mostly, he didn’t like the things I liked.”
Thorn’s hands tighten into fists.
“He had rules,” I continue softly. “Schedules. Times for me to be quiet.” I pick absently at the sleeve of my sweater. “I thought if I did everything right, he’d stop being angry all the time. That he’d stop hurting me.”
Pain flashes across Thorn’s face so quickly I almost miss it—almost as if he knows exactly what I mean.
Exactly what I mean.
“You were never anything but perfect,” he rasps and the certainty in his voice nearly undoes me.
Because he says it like it’s obvious, like it’s true.
God, I want it to be true.
For him. For me.
I stare at the TV without really seeing it. “I used to rehearse conversations before he got home from work.”
Silence.
“I’d plan out what I was going to say.” My throat tightens slightly. “What I wouldn’t say. I had a whole playbook ready for whatever mood he’d come home in.” I look back at him. “And most of the time, it didn’t matter how prepared I was.”
Violet curls closer, like she understands what I’m saying, what I’m feeling.
“I still do it sometimes,” I admit.
Thorn leans toward me, loosening that fist, slowly reaching out a hand.
Waiting.
I hold still, emotion lodged painfully beneath my ribs. Then I find the courage to shift an inch closer.
He touches my cheek. “You don’t have to do that with me, don’t have to plan ahead, don’t have to think about every outcome.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You can just be you.”
I know that.
Somehow, I really do.
Which may be the scariest part of all.
So naturally…I panic a little.
“You know,” I say quickly, drawing back. “I think I should whip up another batch of cookies. We ate a lot of them today and—” I start to stand.
His hand slides to my shoulder.
Not holding me in place. Just…holding me.
“You’re scared,” he murmurs.
“I absolutely am.”
“You know what the best cure for that is?”
Mute, I shake my head.
“Watching movies, eating cookies”—a nod to the plate overflowing with them on the table—“and”—he reaches into his pocket—“bribing the cat with gourmet salmon treats.”
I blink. Then again.
And then I smile.
Because he pulls the bag of treats out with a flourish.
And Violet pops her head up.
“Meow?”