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Crack.
The way her eyes shone with tears when she said she trusted me, as if she meant it.
Crack.
I know she meant it. The way she said it, there was nothing but truth in her eyes, nothing but blind trust and forgiveness.
Crack.
I want it. Fuck, I want it so much. I want to be worthy of her trust, deserving of her belief in me. She’s offered it to me freely, but I’ll never take it until I know for certain that she’s giving it to someone who deserves it.
Crack.
And I don’t deserve it, not now. Maybe not ever.
I throw the gun back on the table, scattering tools, guns, knives, and weapons with a crash, messing up the perfect order and methodical arrangements, not giving a fuck. The thoughts are overwhelming, crawling through my head like living things.
I want you, Grace. I want to fuck you. I want to… to have you.
It almost felt like I could have her for a second, as I watched Hale fuck her like I wanted to. I wanted Hale’s hands on her body to be my own. I wanted her to make those sweet little noises for me, not him.
My cock twitches just thinking about it, frustration burning through me. My whole body has been more… alive and alert since it happened, like nerve-endings I thought were dead have suddenly switched back on. My need for her feels like a palpable thing now, not just an idea of desire.
It’s been years since I’ve jerked off, not since before I was captured—even my own touch was unwelcome, triggering—but now just thinking about her makes me want to wrap my hands around my dick and try to find that same momentary satisfaction I experienced watching her and Hale.
My cock pulses again, and I rub the heel of my hand over it through my pants, half giving in to the need for relief and half trying to banish the growing erection. I give myself a second to bury my hungry thoughts of Grace before standing up and collecting myself. Dragging in a few deep breaths, I work on clearing my head and fixing the mess of weapons I made, returning everything back to where it belongs.
Everything in its place.
Just like me.
I do better when I keep myself under control. When I remember not to hope for things I don’t have any right to want.
The door clicks open, the quiet sound snapping me out of my thoughts.
My head whips up, my fingers already wrapping around the gun in front of me, my entire body instantly alert. I relax when I see that it’s Zaid, and he doesn’t even flinch when he sees my hand on my weapon. He trusts me.
Why does everyone around me trust me so much? Don’t they know they shouldn’t?
“Dinner’s ready,” he says, then grins at me. “Grace helped make it.”
With that pronouncement, he leaves, closing the door again behind him.
He knows I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m down here. I like to keep this room firmly “other.” A place for cleaning weapons, maintaining my tools, and methodically inflicting pain. The less often other people step inside this room, the easier it is to leave what happens down here buried in the basement where it belongs.
Focusing back on the table, I make quick work of inventorying everything, absently finishing before stepping outside and locking up the room behind me. Sliding the only key to that room into my pocket, I make my way up the long flight of stairs to the ground floor, then head toward the dining room.
I pause in the hallway at the sound of Grace’s laughter—it’s light and airy, a sound I haven’t heard in years. The tension in my shoulders melts a little at the comforting sound. Fuck, I need to hear it again and again. I need to feel it against my skin, need to absorb it into my soul.
Zaid and Lucas interject with something teasing, earning another laugh, and something in my chest twists at the sound of their easy banter. It’s times like these that I don’t want to bring my darkness into the room, to tear down everyone’s light with my demons. It’s times like these when I want nothing more than to be fucking normal again.
All eyes look up as I enter the dining room, but the only person I look at is Grace, unable to keep my gaze away from her.
My heart gives the faintest stutter, my pulse leaping to my throat.
There are still bruises on her neck, although they’re not as dark as they used to be. But even though the evidence of my weakness and violence still sits on her skin,
Grace’s gaze isn’t filled with loathing or fear. It doesn’t have a trace of pity or anger, just softness. A kind of softness that only she possesses, one that infuses every part of her.
