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Six
Brit
Pain tears through my side, ripples through my torso.
I freeze, every muscle going tight, bracing as the avalanche of hurt tumbles over me. Waiting as it pummels me over and over and over. Until, finally, the pain begins to subside.
My eyes are clenched tight, so I don’t see Stefan moving closer.
But I feel him.
Feel the brush of his hand on my cheek, the roughened skin of his palm, his calloused fingertips running so fucking gently over my skin. “Breathe, sweetheart,” his soft voice rumbles, “just breathe through the worst of it.”
My physical body hurts—from the fall, from my past injuries.
But those words hurt more.
Or maybe the tone.
Or maybe the touch—his hand shifting, cupping my jaw, sliding down along the outside of my throat, and then his weight shifts and I’m gasping as I’m suddenly in his arms, cradled against his chest.
Like I mean something.
Like I mean something to him.
“N-no,” I stutter, shoving at the arm banded around my middle, kicking my legs against his hold on my knees.
For all the good it does me.
Because his arms just tighten and then he’s straightening, moving toward the stairs, carrying me up them.
“What are you?—?”
“Hush,” he whispers, and—God—this hurts so much that I can’t continue talking, can’t form that protest on my tongue, my lips, can’t keep fighting him as he carries me into the bedroom and sets me on the bed with a softly ordered, “Stay.”
My eyes are burning. My jaw pulses with pain as I clench it tightly.
And then he’s gone.
And…I don’t stay.
I can’t.
I push up from the mattress, from the bed I slept beside this man in for more than a decade, and I move painfully into the closet, snatching clothes at random—sweats, tank, socks, and a hoodie. Then I’m in the bathroom, the door closing behind me with a soft click. I flick the lock, move to the counter, and drop the clothes on top.
Unfortunately, doing so means that I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the mirror.
And I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
Older. With far more gray hairs and wrinkles than a decade before. And with…shadows in my eyes again.
Shadows I’d excised once.
Shadows…that are back.
“Enough,” I whisper, moving carefully as I unzip my Gold branded sweatshirt, drop it to the floor, as I wrestle my Gold branded T-shirt and bra over my head, ignoring the pain radiating up my spine, through my side and arms and legs.
My entire body is one raw nerve.
