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“Six years,” she whispers.
I want to speak to explain. I want to take away the last six years for her, but I can’t. I want to take it away for myself.
Finally, her head whips toward mine. “It’s been six years since we fell into the ocean off the side of your yacht?”
“Yes.”
She closes her eyes harshly, as she sucks in a breath. Her knees come up to her chest, trying to reassure herself.
I could comfort her so easily with a hug. I’m sure a hug would help. But it’s not something I’m used to giving, nor have I experienced in recent years.
And then I see why her eyes are closed so tightly. Tears. Tiny droplets are escaping out the side of her eyelids.
I gasp.
Out of everything she’s endured, I never imagined she cried. Kai’s too proud and strong to let any man see her pain—including me. The only reason I get to see them is because this revelation took her by surprise. She spent her time in captivity trying to remain in control, I’m sure, but now she realizes she was never really in control.
She brushes the tears from her cheeks as they roll down, but no audible sob escapes her lips.
I shake my head, admiring her strength.
I wish I were as strong.
Her eyes open after several minutes pass. The redness in her eyes the only sign remaining that she cried.
“I was taken at sixteen. Just two weeks shy of my seventeenth birthday. I thought I had only lost three years, but I lost six. So instead of twenty, I’m twenty-three years old.”
There is nothing to say, so I say nothing.
“I’m twenty-three.” She laughs at herself as if that is the only logical thing to do. Then she looks at me with wildness in her eyes. “Age is nothing but a number. Twenty isn’t that different from twenty-three. That’s not what makes it hard. It’s realizing how long I was gone. How much I endured. How much control I lost.”
I disagree. Twenty is very different from twenty-three, at least the three years made a huge difference in my own twenty-four years on this earth, but I won’t tell Kai that. She needs to deal with the realization on her own.
She slumps back in her chair, her legs falling back to the floor. Then she turns her attention back to me. “You won. Ask your questions.”
And then I realize why she let me win. This answer, finding out she lost more years, was enough for tonight. She can’t endure any more truths.
What do I want to know? I get three questions. I start with what I assume will be an easy answer.
“Why do you sleep on the floor instead of the bed?” I assume it has to do with the six years she was taken, but I need confirmation.
Her eyes go blank again. “Because for three—I mean six years—I was never given a bed, pillow or blanket. The floor I slept on was hardwood. Over time I guess my body adapted. Anything else is too soft for me.”
I nod. I appreciate the truth, but I need more. And the only way to get more is to push her out of her comfort zone.
“Why don’t you like being touched?”
She bites her lip. “Get touched against your will for six years and then tell me how you like other people’s touch.”
My eyes darken. “There’s more to it than that.”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s it.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“How do you know? You’ve never been through the torture I have.”
“Yes, I have!”
