Chapter 8
I’m trapped, locked at his side against my will. And yet, this is the most at peace I’ve felt in years.
The steady certainty of him is tempting, I’ll admit. What I wouldn’t give to be able to rest my head on his shoulder, allow him to embrace me, and tell me that everything is going to be okay. I wish that I could allow myself the comfort he offers.
I can’t afford that. We can’t.
Sharp acidity heightens my awareness as I take my first sip of the iced coffee, but it’s not overpowering because he’s cut it with the perfect amount of creamer and cinnamon, just how I’ve always liked. “You remembered.” I hum with appreciation.
“I remember everything.” Hawthorne leans forward, cupping his palms around his warm mug. “No hot drinks; only iced. A three-count of creamer. Half a tablespoon of cinnamon. Glass cup, but not clear. A rim with some texture to it.” His eyes flick down to the amber chalice-like vessel I sip out of.
Tracing the carved edge of the lip, I attempt to distract myself from the sentimentality that threatens to overwhelm me. It’s been forever since anyone’s known even my real name, let alone the way I like my coffee. A simple thing that has the power to destroy my self-control. “Thank you.”
His smile is wry, but the debate is clear in his eyes—will he push me or allow me to go at my own pace? Some things never change. That’s the problem with playing chess with the only partner you’ve ever had. At some point, you know all of each other’s moves, can anticipate any potential strategy.
With a rap of his knuckles on the table, his decision is made. He’ll play along…for now.
“If nothing else, I’m a good host.” Thorne leans back, his arm hooking over the edge of the chair. His posture is the picture of cool and collected, but the impatience in his eyes gives him away. “How do you like the changes to the house?”
“It’s beautiful. Well, at least judging by the glimpses I got while being hastily shuttled from one room to the other.
” Taking another sip, I allow the creamy coffee to coat my words in sugar.
“It would be much easier to explore if I wasn’t kept in handcuffs.
” Rubbing at the skin on my wrist, I don’t have to force a wince of pain.
My sensitive skin is red and inflamed. “Can we please be done with these?”
A slow nod gives away his agreement before he’s come to terms with it.
“Fine. Since you asked so sweetly, I’ll uncuff you.
” Slipping the key out of his pocket, he fits it into the tiny lock.
His thumb sweeps over the irritated skin, and his brow furrows in tandem with mine.
And yet, he hesitates, then brings my knuckles to his mouth.
With his lips on my cold skin, he swears, “I promise you this, if you try to leave me again…” Our eyes meet as he formulates his warning, so I get to watch the eager gleam of challenge overtake the somberness I just saw there.
“If you ever try to leave me again, I’ll fuck you so hard, so deeply, so wholly, that you won’t be able to walk, let alone escape.
” The click of the disengaged lock punctuates the vow.
When I jerk my hand back, he doesn’t resist.
“I gave you what you wanted; now it’s your turn. I think I’ve earned some answers. Don’t you agree?”
The worst part is that I want to tell him everything. I want to throw all my thoughts, fears, and struggles on the table and let him hold them in his gentle hands. I know that they’d be safe with him. But he’s not safe with me.
I also know that I can’t keep everything from him. A compromise is the only way forward for now. Although finding the middle ground is easier said than done.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
I shake my head; a silent negotiation he understands well.
“Let’s start with where you’ve been.”
Everywhere but where I belong. I allow the thought to hold space for a few seconds before I dismiss it.
I’ve been everywhere and nowhere, so few places meaning anything.
So few efforts making any difference. Summarizing so much time while keeping my secrets doesn’t come easily.
He gives my thoughts time to breathe as he finishes his coffee.
Backlit by the porch light streaming through the broad windows, one half of his face is presented in sharp definition, while the details of the other are softened with the candle that flickers between us.
He’s something out of a dream despite this situation being a nightmare.
Part of me wants to memorize every detail that’s developed with age, the other urges me to look through him, not to solidify the picture I carry of him in my mind, no matter how hard I try to forget him.
“Why does it matter where I’ve been? I’m here now, aren’t I?”
There’s a twitch of frustration in his sharp jawline. “Only because I found you and dragged you back—”
“I think the word you’re looking for is kidnapped. But I guess I didn’t put up much of a fight.”
“And why was that?” An agitated finger drums against his mug. “I could have been anyone. Anything could have happened to you. Why didn’t you try harder to escape?”
The walls of steel I’ve built around me tremble at his calculated prodding.
Taking a long sip, I let the harmonious balance of sweet bitterness coat my throat, hoping it will help the lies I want to tell come out easier.
“Maybe I’m tired of running. Maybe I don’t see a point in trying to save myself anymore.
” The truth rushes past my lips. I’ve never met a secret I could keep from him.
The breath he sucks in is lightning, slicing the air. His teeth grinding together is the warning thunder before a storm. “Loving you, protecting you, is the only thing that’s ever mattered.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” I fight against constricting vocal cords doing their best to strangle me into silence.
My throat works roughly as I try to force what I want to say out.
“It’s no way to live. You revolving your entire world around me—my problems, my needs, my magnetism for darkness. I attract bad things.”
“How are you going to tell me how to live when you’re too afraid to do it yourself?
” There’s an impressive restraint in the levelness of his voice despite his flaring pierced nostrils and tightening grip, the snake tattoo on his forearm flexing.
“You might as well be the breath in my lungs, the blood pumping in my heart, the fibers of my being that hold me together, because I can’t live without you.
I’ve been a goddamned zombie all these years.
Searching. Planning. Waiting. For you. It’s all for you.
It’s always been for you. All of this is for us.
” His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling with great effort.
“So, please, tell me. Where have you been all this time while I’ve been sitting in this house with the porch light on? ”
I forfeit a long sigh. “Arizona. Georgia. Louisiana. Maine. Everywhere and back again. First, I started heading east. Then, I took a detour south.” Cool liquid sits uncomfortably in my stomach like the details I suddenly feel self-conscious about sharing.
My gaze evades his, focusing on the sleek black cabinetry that lines the kitchen.
“In between visiting mediums, I decided to go down to Texas—El Paso, Laredo, Presidio.”
“What’s in Texas?” Curiosity pulls him forward, along with his scent that washes over me.
“Family.”
Disbelief darkens the shadows that dance on his face. I have no doubt he knows my mom still lives in the same house.
A deep breath centers me as I prepare to speak about my least favorite topic. “Family on my mom’s side. The ones I never got to meet.” Embarrassment makes me shift in my seat. “I was looking for answers. Got some. Left with new questions.”
New insecurities. Renewed longing. I take a long gulp, trying to sort the swirling emotions that always rise up when I talk about them—a topic that’s always been complicated. The muscle in my chest aches at the loneliness I still feel when it comes to my family, my heritage that was kept from me.
“And how did that go?” he asks cautiously, too familiar with the wounds the jagged fractures of my family have caused me. Stretching across the table, he takes my hand in his.
“Incredible. Heartbreaking. It was everything I thought I’d missed out on and more.
The warmth of a close family, the unique connection of blood and culture and language.
” My eyes burn at the memories. “They opened their home up to me, welcomed me around their table, invited me into their lives, and what did I give them? A name and a tiny piece of a broken woman who will probably never see again?” Familiar embarrassment heats my skin.
The desperation to belong is my greatest weakness in this life.
Well, besides him.
He’s the only source of acceptance I’ve ever known.
The key to my lock, the perfect fit. I stroke my finger across the key tattooed on his inner finger that matches the lock on my chest.
“What does this tattoo mean?” He holds my hand tighter, his curious eyes taking in the blacked-out portion of my wrist, and the flowers and thorns that peek out from under it.
Bitterness has my tongue moving, secrets spilling before I think better of it.
“That was a punishment. That was why I stopped calling you.” I shudder at the echo of pain that runs through my arm, the trembling and jumping of my muscles unforgettable, my pleading sobs nearly drowning out the buzzing of the tattoo gun.
“What do you mean, a punishment?” He looks closer, eyes widening when he notices the raised, silvery scarring that catches the light. “Who did this to you?” he demands, as if he can do a damn thing about it.
“Who do you think?” The venom in my voice is unwarranted, and yet it collects on my tongue, dripping from useless fangs that have never been as lethal as they look. All bite, but no follow-through.