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Thane was right. She couldn’t lock away the pain anymore—she’d spent a week trying, and failing, to shove the whole sordid mess away where she couldn’t relive it every damn day. She’d reached a critical point, and she had a choice to make—get help or suffer the consequences.
His hand was hard on her neck, his touch comforting.
His love hadn’t wavered, not once, no matter how tightly she’d strapped herself down.
The Domme was no longer her protection, her shield against what hurt her, and she realized it was because of him. When he took control, he gave her respite. He made it easy to submit, to set her worries and doubts into his hands, so she could breathe.
She snuggled closer into him, pressing her cheek to his chest as best she could. His sling was cumbersome, but with any luck, he wouldn’t need it for long…well, if she stopped using him as a punching bag when he hit a nerve that resonated too deep. “I’m sorry, Thane.”
“Hmm?”
God, this was all wrong. Here she was, sprawled all over him and no doubt hurting him, when he had a gunshot wound in his shoulder. Simply because he gave her what she craved so desperately—the warmth of human comfort. Slowly, carefully, she disentangled herself from his arms, ignoring his warning rumble of displeasure, and rose to stand beside the couch.
Leaning down to cup his cheek, she stifled a whimper. Her body was still various shades of disgusting colors skin should never be, and a large percentage of her bones still ached with bruising she couldn’t see. At least that, she could hide. “I’m sorry I hit you. It’s completely unacceptable.”
He blinked open dazed amber eyes. “All part of my plan, sugar. Don’t worry about it.”
But she would. She was already feeling guilt for taking out her emotional problems on him, and it would deepen the more she thought about it. For that reason, more than anything, she knew she would agree to go to therapy—her experience with trauma victims, herself included, told her that exhibiting signs of violence toward loved ones meant she was heading down a slippery slope, plunging toward self-destruction if not stopped.
It was a scary thought.
Connie tucked the blanket around Thane as his eyes fluttered closed again. He tired so easily at the moment, which worried her. He needed to rest while he healed, but the stubborn ass had adamantly rolled out of bed that morning and resumed his usual routine. He was bound and fucking determined to set aside his own recovery to ensure she survived hers.
As she slipped out of the room, she thought about what he had and hadn’t told her. His career was only a fraction of the man she loved. She understood confidentiality, the need to keep things flying under a certain radar. If he’d been part of classified projects, there was no way she expected him to break his silence for her.
Honestly, if he hadn’t told her he’d been military, she wouldn’t have known. He held a proud stance when his leg didn’t fail him, but the crisp edge of movement she imagined a soldier would have had softened in him. His hair was a little on the long side for an army haircut, and his skin was unmarred by ink. Even the way he spoke didn’t offer a clue.
Had he learned to conceal that part of him? Hide it away from the civilians he associated with so he didn’t raise suspicions and entice the obvious questions? Or had he simply shed years of training and indoctrination to become the man he wanted to be?
Connie headed down the hallway without thinking, turning left to go to Alicia’s room. What had been Alicia’s room, she corrected. Her unease at discovering Thane had closed out his career with a stint as a professional gun for hire dissipated as she opened the door and stared.
It was like Lisha had simply gone to the bathroom and would be back any minute.
The bed was rumpled, the way it was when the girl spent hours on her back, staring at the ceiling instead of out the window, as death metal rattled the glass and shook the damn walls. The sound system was eerily quiet—Connie found she actually missed the noise.
There were papers on the desk, finely covered in dust. The house had been alone and empty for too long, and Connie realized it didn’t feel like home anymore. It hadn’t for a long time.
She stepped inside, running her fingers along the dresser.
Thane’s house had become home. All her possessions might be here, but she’d rooted herself in his heart and his home. How would she cope, stepping foot back in that beautiful space, being pelted by memories? Not well, she imagined. Not well at all.
She bumped her fingertips over the books lined up on Alicia’s desk. The ones she’d bought her, the ones Alicia had pretended to read. Tucked between them, Connie discovered, were children’s books. The kind that taught young kids how to break words down so they could be learned with ease.
Her throat strained as tears threatened.
In the middle of the desk, a piece of paper was folded beside a pen.
Connie picked it up and spread it open, pressing her hand to her mouth as she read the words written in handwriting no more advanced than a five-year-old’s.
Connie,
You saved me from myself. Let me do the same for you.
I don’t have words, not good ones I can spell.
I love you should cover it.
Alicia
