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“Sarah. Stop. It’s over.” Dean followed after her, his longer stride swallowing her lead.
“No.” She continued to run. “You sick fucking bastard.”
“Sarah, you weren’t—”
She didn’t want to hear it. Just shut him out. But the panic. Oh, the panic had other plans. Plans she couldn’t control. She wanted to keep running, but the tears kept coming, and a new sickness rocked her belly.
No matter how much air she drew, her body took over, and she had no choice but to stop running, her hands landing on her knees while her tummy convulsed.
Before she knew it, she was vomiting onto the dry grass at her feet. Vomiting and crying. Not a pretty sight by any means, but screw pretty. Screw Dean. He deserved to see what he’d done to her.
The sickness stopped, but she stayed doubled over, the only thing to straighten her being the growing sound of Dean’s footsteps. She flicked her gaze to him and the same hollow-cheeked expression he’d given her inside the freezer and shook her head for him to leave her alone.
She marched on, digging through her coat pockets for a tissue and swiping at her mouth when she found one. The parking lot felt a million miles away, and none more so than when the fast thunder of footfalls raced behind her once more.
She turned to tell him to go to hell—even that place too nice for him—but she found herself encased in a wall of immoveable muscle. It took a moment to realize he wasn’t fighting her, he was hugging her. In that time, she was the one to fight, wanting to break free.
“I hate you.” She pounded her fists into his chest, a series of movements that exhausted her while seeming to have no impact on him. “Do you understand? I hate you.” She punched at him again, one stinging blow after another. Not once did he move or stop her. “That whole time, I thought I would die.”
Her endless tears. Her face felt on fire. The sort of fire that burned no matter her efforts to douse it. Then again, Dean deserved her anger, even though her tirade now grew weaker and weaker.
She swung at him all the same, his arms still locked around her but with enough space to let her lash out until she tired completely.
“I’m sorry.” He lifted one hand and cradled the back of her head, his apology a mild murmur as he pulled her closer. “I’m sorry.” His light whisper disappeared into her hair, and something about that softness, coupled with her sheer exhaustion, had her body sagging into him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
She gave a final half-hearted struggle, and he dropped a gentle kiss to the top of her head, each apology stealing her will to fight until she gave him all her weight and an altered cry took over—one so broken and lost and ripping from a place deep within her.
“It’s over. I promise, it’s over. I don’t ever want to give you a reason to look at me like that again.” He stroked a hand over the back of her head, gentle, as though she might break in his hold, even if she did consider herself already broken. “Like I might hurt you.”
His familiar masculine scent and strong embrace, the forlorn look in those cobalt eyes—each detail was a reminder of what she’d had—that reminder pushing her toward what she wanted most. The path of least resistance. To forgive him. As if forgiveness could make all the pain mean something. To have been for something.
But not every argument needed a resolution. Not every misdeed deserved her forgiveness. And the restlessness that had poisoned her life of late, would not settle until she shared her bitter truth with the man who’d upended her quiet existence.
“You’ve already hurt me.” She stepped back and ran her palms over her eyes, eyes that stung in their raw and swollen state. “And now, I don’t want to look at you at all.”
