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Hunter flicks a look at me—the implying one—like maybe he’s thinking about the same thing.
“That’s not true,” I insist, and when he merely rolls his eyes, I add, “Well, if it is true, I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“I know you’re not, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”
“Maybe I should do something to make it not be that way.”
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling around the corners, as he collects the bowl of egg mixture and moves over to the stove where a pan is heating. “Yeah, nothing you can do is going to change that. That’s the thing about Jax; he doesn’t connect with most people, but when he does, it’s for life.” He dumps the egg mixture into the pan, and it sizzles. “We’re all kind of like that, I guess.” He sets the bowl down.
“But I don’t have all of you wrapped around my finger,” I stress as I take out a few slices of bread from the bag.
He doesn’t say anything as he collects a spatula from the drawer, but I detect his brows rising in an implication.
My stomach drops. Like actually drops with nausea. I’m not even sure why I’m freaking out about this.
Okay, actually I do.
A few times when my uncle was splitting me open, he uttered similar words.
“You’re such a fucking slut,” he said to me once as he put the tip of the knife to my side, piercing the flesh. “And you know it.” The blade sank deeper, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. “This is your fault, you know. You have me wrapped around your finger, making me feel this way, always being here, always fucking with my head.”
He’d been trashed that night and, honestly, I could barely sort through his rambles. Still, I remember the being-wrapped-around-my-finger part clearly because it didn’t make any sense. Still doesn’t.
As shame washes over me, I grow silent as I start putting the slices of bread into the toaster.
“Pretty Raven, where’s your head at?” Hunter asks, glancing at me.
“Just on making this toast.” I want to force a smile onto my face, but I can’t get my lips to cooperate, so I keep my gaze trained on the toaster.
“Hey.” Hunter moves beside me, so close that his shoulder touches mine. Then he cups my face with his hands and turns my head toward him so I have to look at him. “What’d I say that upset you?”
“Nothing. It’s just me … I’m just being stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. Your feelings are yours, and you’re allowed to feel upset.” He skims a finger along my cheekbone. “But I really want to know what I said to you that caused that emotion to rise so I don’t accidentally do it again.”
“It’s nothing really,” I insist. “The comment about me having all of you wrapped around my finger just reminded me of something my uncle said to me a few times.”
Something flashes in his eyes that I think might be anger, yet when he speaks, his tone is even and calm, soothing. “Do you mind if I ask what it was?”
I lift a shoulder, that shame bearing down on me. I don’t have to tell him—I know that—but Hunter already knows enough about me that I decide to.
“A few times when he was cutting me and he was drunk,” I start, swallowing hard, “he said I was a slut and that I was making him do that to me because I had him wrapped around my finger. Whatever the hell that means.” I sigh. “He was drunk and just rambling.”
Hunter remains quiet for a moment, the eggs hissing in the background.
“You know what he did to you is in no way, shape, or form your fault, right?”
I nod, but a small fragment of me has questioned, if perhaps I was normal—not so sassy and defiant and maybe even a murderer—that he’d have left me alone.
“It wasn’t,” he repeats, carrying my gaze. “And what I said about you having us wrapped around your finger, I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”
I frown. “How? No one wants to be wrapped around someone else’s finger.”
“That’s not true at all. Can it be bad? For sure. Especially if the person running the show is a cruel person. But there’s not a cruel bone in your body. And you don’t have us wrapped around your finger because you’re trying to make things that way.” His lips tug into a half-smile. “It’s because we want to be.”
My heart is doing weird things in my chest. “Even if that’s true … why would you want to be?”
He drags the pad of his thumb across my lips, his gaze fleetingly falling to my lips. “Why wouldn’t we want to be? You’re sweet, adorable, feisty as hell, funny, and just so goddamn strong, despite everything.”
