13. Karolina
KAROLINA
The next morning, Brandon makes breakfast for me: avocado toast with halloumi and crispy bacon.
He’s an amazing cook. He dotes on me. Every action, every word, is meant to comfort me.
His affirmations and unabashed declarations of affection are so sweet that they make my heart ache. I want to accept them so badly. I want to reciprocate them.
But years of trust issues have only been compounded by his elaborate deception.
Despite how desperately I want him, a little voice in my head warns me: not safe.
I know deep in my bones that he’ll protect me physically, but putting my heart on the line is another matter entirely.
I’ve spent too long with my guard all the way up to lower it so easily. I don’t know how to exist without my protective walls.
The prospect is terrifying.
My disquiet ratchets up a notch after breakfast, when he says, “I have something for you.”
I eye him warily. “I don’t need any gifts. You’ve already bought two houses for me. It’s too much.”
“Nothing is too much for you.” He holds out a hand, and I take it without question. “Come with me.”
The firm order is easier to follow than succumbing to the flicker of instinctive resistance.
Still, my steps are a touch reluctant as I allow him to lead me through the sprawling manor.
We reach the end of a long corridor. My stomach drops when he opens the door to reveal the massive room.
It’s a dance studio.
Mirrors line the walls, and the ballet barre makes the purpose of the space undeniable.
I shrink back, but his arms enfold me from behind, refusing to allow me to retreat.
“Brandon…” His name is a shaky protest.
He drops a kiss on my shoulder. “Dance for me.”
I shake my head, fear fluttering in the center of my chest.
Shirley’s phantom fingernails dig into the back of my skull, and my head is submerged in icy water. I can’t breathe. I’m going to drown.
Just like my parents…
“Breathe, Karolina. You’re safe. You’re with me.”
I draw in a ragged breath.
“Good girl. Another. Keep breathing.”
I obey, and my lungs burn in protest.
“No one will hurt you here,” he soothes. “I won’t let them.”
His corded arms flex around me, reassuring me that nothing will get past him. Nothing can harm me while he’s holding me.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “I know it’s not rational, but I feel…” I choke on the admission as though I’m coughing up water. “I can still feel her fingernails cutting into my scalp. I remember the way her cane burned when she lashed my thighs.”
“Shirley is dead. So is Charlie. They can never hurt us again.”
I turn in his arms, so I can look up into his familiar eyes.
“They’re dead?”
He nods, but his jaw ticks. He’s anxious about my reaction.
Because I know the truth. I read it plainly on his new face.
“You killed them.”
He searches my eyes, trying to discern the tumultuous feelings that churn inside me.
I trace the taut line of his jaw. “You did it for me?”
He leans into my tentative touch. “Yes.” He blows out a long breath. “And I did it for me. They will never abuse another child.”
“It wasn’t just for us,” I surmise. “You did it for the others, too.”
I take a moment to consider him. “You said all the men you killed in the ring were criminals. Is that why you don’t feel bad about it? Because you prevented them from hurting more people?”
He huffs. “If you’re trying to picture me as some sort of righteous vigilante, you’re wrong.” His fingers trail through my hair. “You’ve always wanted to see good in me, and I love you for it. I’m addicted to the way you look at me.”
“And how is it that I look at you?”
His eyes darken. “Like I’m not a monster. Like I’m not capable of terrible things.”
I go up onto my toes and press a soft kiss to the harsh slash of his lips. “I know you’ll always protect me, and that means you’re capable of violence. But I also know you have a good heart. That’s all that matters to me.”
He shakes his head. “You see me like no one else, but you’ve never accepted the truth. My heart isn’t good. It’s selfish and possessive. I would burn the world for you, Karolina, and I wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse.”
A shiver dances down my spine, but I’m not afraid.
I brush his caramel hair back from his cheek. Unlike his buzz cut when he was younger, the long locks frame his perfectly constructed features.
“I accept all of you,” I promise. “I’ve done terrible things, too, and you accept me. We have each other, just like always.”
He captures my hand and presses my palm to his chest, directly over his heart.
“Always,” he repeats, a deep vow.
I can’t suppress a shudder—something between yearning and vicious, cautious hope.
“Are you still scared?” he murmurs. “Will you dance for me?”
That flutter of fear makes my heart race again. “I don’t know if I can.”
He takes a step into the room, keeping my hand caged so he can lead me into the studio.
“Then let me play for you.”
My apprehension finally ebbs enough that I notice the grand piano in the corner.
“You still play? After everything Shirley and Charlie put us through?”
He sits on the bench and arranges my body beside his, so we’re still touching even as he uncovers the keys.
“I don’t think about our abusers when I play. I think about you dancing for me. It was never for them, never for the prestige they wanted from us. This was always for you.”
My breath hitches.
All I remember is pain and trauma, but Brandon finds beauty in the arts that bonded us.
And when the first, bittersweet notes soar through the studio, my heart twists with agonized desire.
He plays fearlessly, untouched by the cruelty of our tormented childhood. Our foster parents couldn’t beat this out of him. He still has his passion and skill.
I rest my head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of my head, not wavering in his song.
We linger in that space for long, painful minutes. With each note, the walls around my heart crumble a little bit more, until I’m raw and exposed and aching.
He flows into a second song, more powerful and passionate.
Nothing has diminished his fierce spirit, his bold tenacity. Not the cruel abuse, and not the horrific years that separated us.
I’ve been a coward. All this time, I’ve let Shirley win. I let her take something I loved from me.
Brandon is so much stronger than I am.
He keeps saying he’s not worthy of me, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve him. He seems to have forgiven me for leaving him for dead.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to atone for what I did to him, but I can try to match his strength.
He wants me to dance. It’s the least I can do for him.
And I’ll do it for myself, too.
My cruel foster parents won’t take one more thing from me. They’re dead.
Brandon made sure they can never victimize another child.
They can never harm us.
I’m done shuddering at memories of my tormentors.
They’re nothing but ghosts now, and I don’t have to let them haunt me.
I place my hand over his, stilling his fingers on the keys.
“I want to dance,” I say when the music stops.
He kisses me deeply. “That’s my brave girl.”
I flush at the praise.
I want to be brave for him.
And for me.
He reaches beneath the piano and retrieves a white box wrapped in a black ribbon. I know what it is before I open it with trembling fingers.
I part the delicate layers of paper inside the box to reveal soft pink pointe shoes.
“I’m out of practice,” I equivocate, even as I stroke the familiar satin material.
“That’s why I built this studio for you,” he says. “You’ll remember how. You can dance as often as you want.”
The magnitude of his gift is overwhelming. Not only did he buy this estate for me, but he made sure to convert one of the rooms into a dance studio so we could share this space. He’ll play, and I’ll dance.
Just like we used to.
Like we were always meant to.
The lump in my throat prevents me from thanking him, so I simply slide on the pointe shoes to silently convey my acceptance and gratitude.
He watches with open hunger as I wrap the soft ribbons around my ankles, securing them in place with delicate bows. He’s looking at me like he’s waited a lifetime for this.
And in a way, he has.
He’s not the boy he used to be.
He’s a new man, and it’s more than just his reconstructed face. He’s harder now. More demanding.
More possessive.
Obsessed.
And when he returns his long fingers to the piano, I watch him with matching obsession.
His steady blue gaze is fixed on me as he plays from memory; no need to look at sheet music or his hands.
He nods in silent encouragement.
I force myself to put distance between us so I can go to the barre.
I’m wearing black leggings and a periwinkle blue sweater rather than a leotard and fluffy tutu, but I’ll be able to dance comfortably.
Brandon provided me with this outfit when we got dressed this morning.
He planned for this.
Looking into his awestruck features, I know he yearned for it.
My soul swells with my own yearning, and I start to dance. With each tentative step, my muscles remember how to move with grace and precision. Running has kept me fit, even if I’m not in the same physical condition I used to be when I practiced ballet daily.
But my desire to join with Brandon in our shared passion lends me the strength I need to go en pointe.
I dance until my feet ache, and I’m slightly dizzy with breathless rapture. All the while, he watches me like he’s been slowly dying without our connection, and our reunion is reviving him as though I’m breathing air back into his lungs.
Finally, he finishes a song and closes the distance between us. He has to hook an arm around my waist to stop me from spinning.
I never want this moment to end.
“You’ll strain yourself,” he admonishes gently.
“I don’t care,” I pant. “I want more.”
“Greedy little thing. I do care. Your feet must be aching.”
He carries me the short distance to the piano and sets me down on the bench before dropping to his knees before me. His big hands trace the outline of my shaking calves with reverence, and he plucks at the bows that bind my dance shoes to my ankles.