“I like it,” I tell him. I don’t really care for the movie, but I care about the reason it’s on, and that’s enough.
It’s nice here, with him. All the stress of the day is melting away, and I’m stuck in a mindless fog. One where I’m not asked to pick a movie or figure out where to sit. Atticus does that for me, making my decisions and lying me down, poised and perfect.
My eyelids begin to droop, growing heavier the longer he rubs at my back, and I don’t even flinch as he pulls my robe up enough to slip his hand onto my bare skin, kneading away.
It’s soft. It’s safe.
No drunk guys or hurtful mothers can get me here—not with Atticus guarding me like a vicious dog.
I feel the press of his warm lips against my temple, and he mutters, “Good night, sweetheart,” as I slip into the darkness.
Completely and utterly defenseless.
Atticus
8
CAMERON SNORES SOFTLY FROMwhere he lies on my chest, his back expanding gently. The warmth of his body leaks into mine, nearly lulling me to sleep right alongside him.
But I refuse to sleep on this couch when there is a perfectly good bed waiting for us in the other room.
My eyes haven’t returned to the TV since I yanked him down on top of me, and I stare at his soft skin as I rub circles against his back.
If I was uncertain before how far I wanted this thing between us to go, the phone call I received tonight cleared up any remaining doubt.
The sound of his broken voice, the way his cheek was reddening and swollen when I arrived… how he calledmeso that he wouldn’t spend the night alone…
Jesus. I can’t wait to find the unlucky being who did this to him—if he ever tells me, that is. Some part of me knows he never will, and not by choice. I could feel the shame radiating off of him when I found him on that curb, as if I could ever judge him for finding himself in a situation where he was on the weaker end.
I want to protect him from the evils of this world. I want to keep him here, locked away from all outside forces while I teach him how freeing it’ll be to surrender to me. Completely.
My eyes trace the curve of his spine, the delicate, round outline of his exposed bottom. The urge to grab it, knead it, mark it with my hands or teeth is strong, but he needs his sleep.
But I can touch. Soft and gentle, I can touch him.
So I drag my fingertips over the peak of one cheek, feeling him twitch against me as if he can sense it, even from the depths of a dream.
“Shh,” I coo, grazing his warm skin.
Cameron makes a noise, something mumbled and unidentifiable, and it makes me violent with admiration. I want to squeeze and crush and tighten my hold until no one can ever touch him again. So that no one else will ever be able to hear these sweet, sleepy noises.
Someday, Cameron will be mine. I will take him to Chastain Castle, introduce him to my family, and make him my husband.
But for now, I’ll settle for sleeping curled up next to him.
I gently lower his robe, sliding a hand under his thighs to sweep his lower body off the edge of the couch and keeping him cradled against my chest as I stand. Cameron is by no means light with all of these muscles, but I’m strong enough anyway.
I’m suddenly very proud of my strict workout regimen.
With even strides, I carry him to the bedroom, pulling back the covers with one hand and laying him on the bed.
As I cover him with the duvet and take a step back, ready to shower myself, he reaches out an arm, eyes still firmly pressed shut.
“Atticus?” he mumbles, blindly searching for me in his sleep.
“I’m here,” I tell him, sitting on the edge of the bed to brush his golden-blond hair from his face.
Cameron looks so peaceful, so delicate here that my chest aches. But then I notice his robe has fallen open on his top half, and the impression of a dark, vicious bruise is exposed to me from where it marks his stomach.
