Chapter Twelve. Ember #2
“Because I couldn’t deal with the way they made me feel.
Thickheaded, sometimes like a zombie. No, I refused to have something control me like that anymore.
” I shake my head. “I had to put up with that for years because I didn’t have a choice; the doctors didn’t listen to me when I told them about the side effects, and Marcus only cared about what they had to say.
For too long, I felt invisible, voiceless, and disempowered in my own mental health.
When I finally was able to take the reins, I made the best choices for me.
And yes, that’s weed because it calms me—and shit, I like it—but there’s also therapy, yoga, and the grounding techniques I’ve learned.
” I twist around and sit the blunt on the rolling tray.
“Speaking of that, how did you know about the 5-4-3-2-1 technique?”
The question has plagued me since the moment he helped me through my last episode. There’s no way he should be aware of it, unless … I narrow my eyes on him.
“As soon as you were diagnosed, I read up on it,” he admits, voice void of inflection. “And I asked your therapist about coping mechanisms so I would know what to do if you were ever triggered in front of me.”
“You … you did what?” Shock is a sucker punch to my soul, and I gape at him, breathless. “Wait … What?”
“It was clear Marcus didn’t give a fuck. Somebody in that house had to.”
“Somebody in that house had to,” I slowly repeat.
His stoic expression doesn’t change, not even when I chuckle.
“Are you dead ass right now? You muthafuckas are part of my trauma that led to me having IED. It was bad enough I was a young girl who’d just lost her mother and was stuck with a father who couldn’t wait for gotdamn rigor mortis to hit before he brought another woman in the house.
But then I was subjected to fucking sadists instead of a family.
” I laugh again, but the vise around my chest renders it little more than a huff.
I lift my leg up, ready to climb off him.
“Let me the hell up out of here before I—”
“You’re not going no-fucking-where,” he growls, his hands clamping down on me—one on my hip, the other returning to the nape of my neck. “You got me fucked-up.”
He pins me to him, dragging me forward until our noses nearly bump.
To prevent myself from falling against his body, my hands fly up, and I slap them against his wide, bare chest. Five minutes earlier, I would’ve probably acted on the heat from his skin that sends tingles up my arms and down to my chest. But now, the flare of desire only dials up my simmering anger until it licks my skin.
“Get your hands off me,” I snap.
“No.” He shakes me, and it’s hard enough to rattle my teeth if I weren’t clenching them. “For once, shut the fuck up and listen. Say it again,” he grinds out, eyes hooded and gleaming with … Shit, I don’t know.
Rage, yes.
That’s easy.
But there’s more. On anyone else, I would say pain. Or even sorrow. But this is Asad. Asad Prince, my stepbrother, my tormentor, the merciless head of the Cross organization. He’s not “anyone else.”
“You’re so fucking blind, Ember.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I suck my teeth, pushing back against his hand on my neck to insert space between our faces.
But that’s futile. His hold is a shackle, and in this moment, I’m his unwilling prisoner.
“What did I say?” he snarls, lip curling.
“Shut the fuck up. My turn to talk.” His jeweled stare roams over my face, down to the deep V of my robe, which widened in our small struggle.
The wedge exposes the smooth expanse of skin between my breasts and the plump inner curves.
But when his eyes lift to meet mine, arousal doesn’t burn in the depths; that same indecipherable, knotted mixture of emotion that I can’t quite untangle glitters there.
“You know the problem with making victimhood your whole identity? You become too comfortable with it. Walking around this bitch like Linus carrying your trauma like it’s a mu’fucking blanket that you’ll crash the fuck out over if anyone dares try and take it.
By this time, you’ve invested so many years and so much effort in being a victim, you might as well be collecting social security for the shit.
Did the people in your life fail to protect you?
Did they fuck you over? Did they treat you like the opps instead of family?
Yeah, yeah, and hell yeah. But you’ve let it taint how you move, who you are, and how you deal with the world.
And it’s fuck everyone who doesn’t agree with cosigning your version of the past or present. ”
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear this,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes closed, trembling on his lap.
His words pelt me like darts, breaking skin, sinking into tissue and bone. The … rancid truth of them screams in my head so loud, I fist my hands on his chest to keep me from slamming them over my ears and rocking like a child.
“You gon’ hear me, Ember, because no one in your life gave a gotdamn to give you the brutal, ugly truth before.
You’re so consumed with how you’ve been wronged, you don’t stop to consider or recognize who you’ve caused harm to, baby.
” I choke on a half whimper, half objection.
“Nah, I’m not talking about people like Deacon or Carter or those pieces of shit you experiment on.
I mean the ones you’ve hurt by refusing to let anyone past that no-man’s-land you call a heart.
Even your lab rats only get so far past the gate, and you care for them.
Instead of trusting people, taking a chance, and believing that maybe, just fucking maybe, they’ll like the real Ember Cross you try so hard to protect, you choose to retreat behind your pain, your trauma, your grief.
You’re more at home with them and in the past than in that fortress you built for yourself. ”
He shifts a hand from my nape to my chin, pinching it tight and tilting my head down so I have no choice but to stare into his eyes. Can he see the screams in mine? It’s possible, because he gently sweeps a thumb across the skin just under my bottom lip.
“Everybody isn’t a potential enemy out to get you, baby girl. Including me.” His voice lowers, deepens, as if he’s about to impart some great secret. Asad sits up straighter, gently pulling me closer into his body, and my breasts brush his chest. “Close your eyes again.”
My mind screams, No, go to hell, but my lids are already lowering, obeying him.
I’m tired of fighting, so, so tempted to accept the haven that his body offers.
“Think back. When you were twelve, I locked you in my closet. Kept you there for hours. Was I doing it to bully you, or because Michelle was in a foul-ass mood and was on the hunt for the one person in the house who had become her favorite chew toy? When you were fourteen, I tied you to a chair and blasted music so loud it felt like torture. Was it? Or could it be I didn’t want you to hear Michelle and Marcus arguing because she was trying to get rid of you?
Or catch when that mu’fucka said you were staying because all Cross children had to remain with their parents until they reached majority.
But he promised to send you away as soon as you graduated high school.
Could it be I wanted to save you from hearing what a weak, dickless bitch your father was? ”
My lips part, but no sound emerges. It’s lodged in my throat, trapped. Which might be a good thing. If it escaped, I’m not sure if it’d be a scream of fury or a sob of grief. Maybe an unintelligible, messy blend of both.
On the blank wall of my mind, I’m viewing what he’s describing, and for the first time, the perspective of the scenes is different. I’m viewing them through an alternative lens. And that view … Again, my lips move but there’s nothing.
“When you were sixteen, I drove you miles from the house, made you get out and walk home. Was I being an asshole, or was I making sure you were nowhere near that mu’fucka because Michelle had invited guests over and planned you to be the entertainment.
In what capacity—I don’t know. But I for damn sure wasn’t trying to wait around and find out.
But never at one moment during that night were you by yourself.
I followed behind you. When you were seventeen, Michelle had all of your mother’s clothes, furniture, and jewelry she left you brought out to the backyard and burned in a big-ass bonfire.
I held you down and made you watch. Or did I hold you so you wouldn’t be alone while my mother destroyed the last ties to yours? ”
“Why?” I rasp.
I don’t need to elaborate; if the tilt of his head is any indication, he understands what’s left unsaid. And thank God, because I’m not able to squeeze anything else except for that one, tired word past my constricted throat.
He leans forward. Allows that silver gaze to touch every inch of my face before meeting mine again.
“At the time, with the little power I had and understanding Michelle like no one else, I did what I could to shield you from her and not make you even more of a target. Because if she guessed the truth, you might’ve been buried right beside your mother.”
I shake my head. “What truth?”
His hands abandon my neck and hip to smooth up my arms, over my shoulders, and around my neck, his thumbs tipping my chin up. This time, it’s very easy to decode the emotion swirling in his eyes, stamping his face.
A fierce, cold determination.
“You’re mine. You’ve always been. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Mine.”