37. Chapter 37
LONDYN
THE DIRECTOR'S FACE HOVERS ABOVE me, those dark eyes gleaming with that same sick satisfaction. His expensive, suffocating cologne fills my lungs until I can't breathe. The chain around my neck tightens as he yanks it, forcing my head back.
"You thought you could hide from me, sweetheart? I always find what's mine."
The chain morphs into hands around my throat. Multiple hands. The men in baseball caps multiply like shadows, reaching, grabbing—
I wake with a slight gasp. I'm not in a dark room. There are no hands around my throat. I'm only wrapped in the comfort of two strong arms.
"Hey, hey. You're safe."
I blink a few times to chase away the rest of the nightmare, then I glance up to see Sean gazing down at me with soft features.
He smooths his hand over my cheek. "Just a dream, beautiful. I've got you. I've been here the whole night."
My ribs are a cage of anxious birds. Sweat plasters my hair to my scalp, and my clothes cling to me like a second skin. I press my face into Sean's chest, breathing him in. Soap and warmth and safety.
"Sorry," I mumble against his shirt.
"Nothing to be sorry for." His hand strokes my hair, gentle, patient. Always so patient with my broken pieces.
After my pulse finally relaxes, I glance at the large hotel windows. Mid-morning sunlight is streaming through a crack in the heavy curtains.
It's a new day. And my entire world is changed.
I rub my eyes. "Mmm, what time is it?"
"I think it's ten."
"Did you sleep?"
"Some."
I feel a little embarrassed, realizing that I crashed with him holding me in a position that probably wasn't comfortable. "Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for."
I spread my fingers over his chest, loving the firmness under my touch; his entire body is a solid foundation. Then I close my eyes and groan because my head still has a dull ache.
"Here." Sean hands me two pills off the nightstand.
God, this man is so thoughtful.
"Thank you." I sit up and swallow them dry.
Then I feel the grit beneath my fingernails, and the clothes I slept in are twisted around my body, damp from a cold sweat.
My hair is tangled and there's a sour taste in my mouth that swallowing isn't fixing.
I need a shower; there's too much dirt from yesterday clinging to me.
I kiss Seans' cheek then climb out of bed and walk toward the bathroom. "Be right back."
"I'll be here."
I pause when he says that and glance over my shoulder. There he is, in my bed. And he's not going anywhere?
"I'm happy about that," I say softly, trying to express at least some of my feelings for him.
His lips curl up at one corner, creating that perfect half-moon shape that transforms his entire face from serious to playful.
His head tilts slightly to one side, blue hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look boyish despite the strength in every line of his body.
Clearly, there's no limit to how many times this man can make my heart flutter.
Before I abandon the shower and return to his arms, I quickly slip into the bathroom and close the door.
The shower is wonderful and just the right temperature, washing away the lingering bits of The Director's touch. I scrub and watch suds swirl down the drain like all the darkness I'm trying to purge.
But as I stand under the spray to rinse conditioner from my hair, I have flashes of my nightmare, then of yesterday, and the tears come.
At first, I'm just weeping from the terror still in my body, the violation.
Then the sobs turn to grunts and I press my fingers against the shower walls, clawing at the slick tiles.
The tears become angry tears. Furious tears.
How dare he?
How dare The Director reach through time and space to disturb my life again? How dare he send his thugs to my workplace, to my street, making me feel hunted in my new city?
I smack my palms against the tile, another half-sob, half-grunt exploding from me. The woman in that room six years ago was young, naive, and trusting. She thought being polite and professional would keep her safe. She thought setting boundaries nicely would be enough.
Well, The Director killed that woman.
I'm not her anymore. I thought I could 'reclaim' myself but there's no way to reclaim something that's already gone. I can only rebuild. I have been rebuilding myself, piece by piece, and fucking Alan Miller tries to come into my life and kill the new woman I've become.
Well, fuck him.
I'm no longer Elle Livingston, his pretty little prey he can trap and consume. I'm Londyn, and I'm strong enough to stab him in the goddamn leg and strong enough to live my life despite the fear and fall in love.
I smack the tile again. I claw at the tile. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you!"
The locked doorknob rattles from Sean trying to get in, summoned by my manic screaming. He pounds on the door. "Londyn. What's wrong?"
"I'm… I'm okay." I croak out.
"What happened?"
I shake my head and huddle in a corner, not that he can see me. I'm trembling and still sobbing as Sean knocks again.
"Londyn?"
I know if I don't give a better response he's going to break open that door to make sure I'm really okay. I turn off the water and grab a towel. "I'm okay," I call out again weakly.
"You sure?"
"Yes. I just need some time."
"Okay. I'm right here, honey."
I wrap one towel around my hair, then another around my body. Then I sit on the closed toilet lid and cry it out some more.
Sean is here and I'm not alone and I'm done being so afraid.
I'm done running.
I'm pissed . And The Director will have a fight on his hands if he decides to come after me again.
When the tears finally stop, the meds have started to kick in, dulling the edges of my pain into something manageable and making my thoughts a bit fuzzy. Relaxation settles over me like a blanket and I stay on the toilet lid for another half hour, just letting everything inside me settle.
When I'm sure the hurricane of emotion is long gone, I finally leave the bathroom. Sean opened the curtains so now he's bathed in a warm glow on the bed. He's not doing anything, just sitting there keeping watch. Giving me time.
He turns to gaze at me. "Need anything?"
"No. Just… needed to vent."
"I get that." Seeing that I'm okay, he lets his cheeks soften. His blue hair is messy, and his smile—god, that smile—settles deep in my chest and makes a home. "I missed you," he says, and it's so achingly tender that I blush.
How does he do that? Make me feel normal and special, even after I've just had one of the worst days of my life and then a meltdown in the bathroom?
I bite my bottom lip before turning toward the dresser to grab the jeans and plain shirt I bought yesterday. My back is to Sean as I rummage through a bag. I'm so blissfully unaware of myself, but that changes the moment I hear Sean's sharp inhale that slices through the dead air.
I freeze, not even daring to breathe.
My scars. The ones on my back must be showing above the towel.
My hand clenches around the fabric, pulling it up, but it's too late. He's seen. He's seen the raised, angry slashes that The Director's whip left on my back.
I spin around, clutching the towel higher. I can't read Sean's expression. His eyes are locked on my body, wide and almost pained. What is he thinking? Is he disgusted? Pitying the broken woman who couldn't fight back?
This isn't how I wanted him to find out. Not after yesterday's violence. I wanted to show him everything on my terms, when I was ready, when I could be brave about it.
Now his eyes have taken all of me in, and there's no going back.
He moves closer, sliding off the bed like I'm a spooked animal that might flee.
I squeeze my eyes shut because I can't bear to watch his expression change as he processes what I am: damaged goods, The Victim, marked forever and carrying my trauma on my skin where it will always expose just how ruined I am.
I may be stronger, but I'm still ruined.
He's close now, his body heat pressing into me. "Can I see?" His voice is so soft it's almost just a breath.
Tears sting behind my closed lids. I can't pretend this away, can I? He already knows so I might as well show him everything.
Then he'll emotionally distance himself, becoming only my bodyguard again. Because how can he look past such ugly, marked skin? Every time we have sex, even if I wear clothes, he'll still know .
But since I'm stronger, I'm strong enough to handle the rejection.
I turn around and lower the towel just enough to fully expose my back and the two long, puckered diagonal slashes.
His fingers graze me, tracing the uneven lines with a feathery touch. Before he lingers too long, I let the towel pool around my feet and turn to show him my stomach.
Here I am. Here's every scar.
Here's the truth of how I've been forever changed.
If this is too much and you don't want me, I understand.
His expression twists, with nostrils flaring and every fine line on his face cracking his normally flawless skin. He sways back, and for one terrible heartbeat, I think this is it, the moment he decides I have an airport's worth of baggage and I'm simply too broken to desire.
Then he blinks and his face crumbles inward; I see the liquid pooling along his bottom lids.
He sinks to his knees, like dropping into worship, and reaches out slowly. He traces another scar with a fingertip before pressing his lips against my stomach. He kisses my torn flesh. Then he kisses another scar. Then a third.
Tears drop from my cheeks onto his hair as I watch him kiss each of the seventeen scars on my stomach like he can heal each one.
When he finishes, he gazes up at me, an ocean of waves floating on his lower lids and threatening to crash down his cheeks. His eyes are glassy but intense; his jaw clenched into granite. He says those Korean words again.
"What?" I choke out.