Chapter 23
Thealina
‘I get to be angry, Rafe!’
And hurt, and embarrassed, and terrified.
“You do,” he says, half turning his body, so I see more of his dark, pleading eyes. “You really do.”
After so many years of being invalidated, I wasn’t expecting that to be his response. I expected to be told that I’m taking this too far. Overreacting. My absolute favourite is when I’m asked if I’m due my cycle. Which I am. But that doesn’t mean my reaction is any less valid.
“You get to feel all the things you’re feeling right now. What I said, it was…”
‘Reckless.’
“Yes,” he whispers. “Words have consequences, you’ve taught me that.”
Even though he’s explained why what happened happened, I’m still consumed with so many emotions and the tears behind my eyes sting.
His eyes bore into me, awaiting my wrath and punishment.
My verdict.
“I did this to you,” he says, behind his hand, his elbows on his knees. The words muffled, but I heard the rawness and shame in his tone.
He didn’t do this to me. My husband did, he chose to do this to me, out of paranoia. Would he have if Rafe didn’t put the idea in his head? Probably. His mother would have got there eventually.
What exactly did my husband need Taka for? What did he want to go back to? To change? Would I have stolen for him?
I knew he was planning on stealing something after finding plans of the castle’s underground chambers, a red circle around the monarchy vaults. I thought gold or coin, something he could trade. Not Taka. And ‘grooming’ me for it? He’d have put my life at risk… and for what?
I still feel so betrayed. So wronged.
How could Rafe mutter those things—hear those things—about an innocent person and do nothing. Be another ignorant bystander and allow abuse to go overlooked. Unpunished.
Where’s the justice. Where’s teaching men to be better fathers, and husbands, and sons? Why do women need to bend to the whims of man, every-fucking-time.
‘Look away.’ I whisper, choking on it. It’s not that I don’t want him seeing my naked body—we’re past that now—I don’t want him to see me cry.
Somehow that notion makes me feel even more so vulnerable.
He turns his back to me; doing what I asked, no questions asked.
So why do I miss his gaze.
Emotion floods me, drowns me, and I can’t make sense of them all. Frustration builds behind my eyes, and it’s not long before they fall.
Tears stream down my face, mixing with the soapy water. I hug my knees to my chest, pressing my face against my knees. My little sobs and hiccups bounce off the walls of the barren outbuilding we’re hunkered in.
Hurt, anger, and hopelessness rains down. Desperation, rage and bitterness too.
“Can I hold you?”
No, I choke, trying to appear stronger than what I am.
If he holds me the dam will explode, and these tears he sees now will be nothing compared to what will break through.
“Lina?”
I SAID NO!
“Damn it, Lina, answer me! I need to hold you.”
I did answer him. Both times.
Oh, my embers, no… the linking serum; it’s worn off.
“Fuck it. You can hate me and yell at me and hit me, but I’m fucking holding you.”
I force my head into my knees, pressing until there’s pain against my skull.
And I scream the minute Rafe’s arms come around me. I scream some more. It’s wet and raw, guttural and distorted. And I don’t fucking care. I scream and I scream, and I scream. The fury boils over. The fury I hold for my husband, for his mother, for my fucking self!
For Rafe.
For the world.
I scream and I scream and I scream, thrashing out my arms in a bid to hit something. Anything.
Rafe hauls me out of the tub. I scream some more. And I cry.
“Hit me. Get it all out. HIT ME!”
And I do. I swing my arms half slapping, half punching him in the chest, arms, face—I don’t know. He keeps his arms circled around me, keeps me steady as I use his sturdy body as my own personal punching bag.
This is wrong.
“AGAIN!”
His roars pull more fury, and I rain down several blows.
“AGAIN!”
No. No more. This isn’t right.
“He hurt you!” Rafe continues shouting, riling me up. “He abused your mind. Made your pretty eyes fucking sad. HIT ME!”
I do; tears pour down my face turning Rafe into a blurred silhouette of man who could be anybody.
My husband.
“He warped your mind into thinking you’re worthless!” I hit again. Throwing my arms and weight hoping it lands against something to expel all this rage.
“Crazy! Emotional!” He yanks my wrath out into an animalistic blaze of fire. He doesn’t water it down to glowing embers, he pours fuel on it.
“Nothing but a wet hole!”
I hit.
I cry.
“Nothing but someone to cook and serve him food!”
I hit again. And I cry some more.
“They hurt you!”
I survived for so long off the idea that my vehemence would be witnessed by the man who infected me with the disease in the first place.
Except it’s Rafe that witnesses it. Rafe that absorbs it.
This is wrong.
Enough.
Enough, my tired, trembling body seems to say.
“I…” he pants. “… hurt you.”
Yeah… you really did, Rafe.