My heart seizing in my chest thinking someone was coming after them again…
I wasn’t full of shit when I told him he wasn’t the only one who was suffering, but I never could have imagined how bad it has been for him.
Not until this very moment.
Not until seeing him like this.
Connor slowly turns his head until his gaze meets mine, and the haunted look in his eyes makes all my hatred for him disappear, at least for a second. Because I see the answer to my question in those dark depths even before he says it.
“Every single time I close my eyes, and most of the time when I don’t.”
Lightning flashes, and the following thunder seems to punctuate his words.
It takes all my willpower not to react to his confession. But for once, my inclination isn’t to make a snide remark or witty comeback. I don’t want to take a jab at him, despite that being what we’ve always done.
We’ve always pushed and prodded.
Poked and probed until it hurt.
We have slung arrows of hatred at each other, and we’ve reveled in the war.
We have enjoyed the battles—probably far too much.
Not this time.
This time, my body’s response is to begin trembling as badly as he is.
I knew that what happened was tearing him apart, but I don’t think anyone realized how bad it was.
He has had himself locked away in that cabin of his on the McBride homestead. The way he kept pushing everybody away, no matter how hard they all tried to break through to him, wasn’t just because he was being Connor McBride. It wasn’t merely his typical standoffish personality coming to the forefront. It was because of this. Because he didn’t want anyone—not even his brothers—witnessing this.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
I’ve never seen him this completely vulnerable. He certainly never has been with me. Nor do I think he has been with anyone else, for that matter, and I don’t know whether pushing him will make it worse.
From where I kneel in front of him on the hard, old wooden floor, he somehow doesn’t look like the strong, independent, capable mountain man I know him to be. He looks like the small boy I once knew, the one I didn’t hate, and knowing that part of him still exists contradicts everything I’ve believed about Connor for so damn long.
Push or not?
Even if I wanted to stop, I don’t know that I could when it’s in my nature to do it—especially with Connor. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He considers me for a moment, as if he’s seeing me for the first time rather than looking at someone he’s known literally his entire life. Someone he’s hated for all, or at least, most of it. “If I did, do you think you would be the one I’d talk to about it?”
There it is…
The defiance.
The need to fight with me.
The underlying anger and disdain.
I grit my teeth, wanting so badly to argue with him, to lash out at his insulting comment, but that wouldn’t get me anywhere and might only push him away further when I need him to talk to me. For my story. “I get that you don’t trust me…”
“Why should I?”
Maybe that’s fair.
“I know you’re pissed about the article.”
