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Archer dumps a few more sausage patties into the bowl. “I felt like we all deserved a nice breakfast.”
After he takes his seat, we all fill our plates and set to work. For a while, I’m too involved in eating—and in enjoying every single bite—to pay attention to the conversation around me. Despite the tension that filled the room last night, the men seem to have settled into a more comfortable arrangement in the light of morning.
I have a mouth full of syrupy, sweet pancakes when there’s a lull in the conversation, and Dare looks right at me and says, “What happened to you the night I almost hit you with my car?”
The kitchen falls silent. As one, the other three men turn to look at me, their gazes just as questioning as Dare’s.
Ridge speaks up first, cocking his head to one side. “You two have met before?”
I finish chewing my bite of pancakes and wash it down with a slurp of coffee, buying me some time. I’ve refrained from telling the shifters much about my past beyond what they’ve already deduced—it’s impossible to hide the scars on my skin, and I know Ridge got an eyeful of them when he changed my clothes.
I definitely haven’t brought up the night I fled from Uncle Clint’s truck though. It isn’t even because I want to keep it from them, exactly. Talking about it just feels… hard.
But I don’t get a sense of pity from Dare when he asks me. In his position, I’d probably want to know why a frightened, wild-eyed woman nearly made me drive off the road in the dark too.
“You were running,” Dare adds, glancing around at the other shifters.
At that, Archer says quickly, “We don’t ask about Sable’s past.”
Trystan shoots Dare a murderous look, and Ridge’s shoulders tense as he grips his fork tightly, like he’s considering whether he’ll need to use it as a weapon or not.
Their protectiveness is sweet, truly. But I can’t keep the pain of my past a secret any longer. I remember vividly Dare’s haunted eyes last night. He knows pain, just like Archer does. Just like they all probably do, to some degree. None of these men will judge me for the thing
s I’ve survived. But maybe knowing those things will help them understand me better.
Help us connect more.
And no matter how unsure I was about all of this in the beginning, I’m coming to realize that I truly do want that.
I want to know these men, in every way possible.
“I was running,” I admit, putting down my fork. Even if I’ve worked up the bravery to sit here and tell them my story, I’ve completely lost my appetite. “My parents both died a long time ago. I hardly remember them. I was raised by my uncle, who beat and abused me. Most of you have seen the scars.”
The fury on Ridge’s face is frightening in its intensity, while Archer is looking at me like he wants to take me in his arms and kiss each and every one of my wounds. Both Trystan and Dare are watching me intently, waiting to hear more with expressionless faces.
I clear my throat around the lump rising in it. “He kept me locked away most of my life. I really only got to leave the house when he hurt me enough to require medical care. Couldn’t even play outside as a kid. I barely even knew where we lived beyond that it’s a big white farmhouse on the outskirts of Big Creek.”
It’s talking about the isolation that finally makes me cry.
Crazy that I can easily tell four strangers how my uncle abused me with a completely straight face, but remembering all those days locked in my room, all those years without a comforting touch…
That’s what breaks me.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, stinging painfully with the effort it takes to hold them back.
“My parents died when I was really little; I don’t even remember them. Uncle Clint raised me. He was all I had for so long, and I guess in some ways he did take care of me. He taught me to read, gave me a basic education, and kept me fed and sheltered.” I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. “He told me for a long time that the reason he wouldn’t let me go out, the reason he was so controlling and cruel, was because he cared about me too much. I used to believe him. But when I finally saw through the lie, it was like the entire illusion came crumbling down. I was ten the first time he hurt me. And then…”
I trail off. I don’t want to go into the specifics of everything Clint did, of the emotional and physical pain I’ve endured at his hands. I’m not sure I can talk about it without breaking down entirely, and I really don’t want to do that.
“I never felt safe enough to run away,” I say, self-conscious about the way the words come out weak and strangled. “If I tried and he caught me, I knew he would kill me. I never felt like it would be… I didn’t even try. I was weak.”
All four men are tense now, staring at me with a mixture of sympathy and rage. The rage, I know, isn’t directed at me. But the sympathy washes over me like a cool breeze on a hot day, calming the rapid pounding of my heart a little.
“We were coming home from the hospital that night,” I say, finally getting around to Dare’s question as I meet his gaze. “He… pushed me down the stairs and thought he had broken my arm. The doctor tried to help me; he was suspicious of Clint and wanted to ask me questions alone. But I was too scared, even then. I threw away the lifeline he offered me.”
My throat tightens as I swallow, remembering the pity in Doctor Patil’s eyes.
“Then on the way back, a deer ran out in front of my uncle’s truck. He slammed on the brakes and we came to a stop just in time. We were angled half across the road. I looked out and saw the deer we almost hit and realized it was freer than I was. I had this moment of absolute clarity, and I just—I just threw the door open and ran. Right in front of your car,” I add with a shaky smile.
