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He nuzzled against my neck and shoulder, making soft sounds of satisfaction as he kissed me. “Don’t be? Why?”
Stupid question. He knew the answer.
“Don’t deserve it,” I said, because that was the easiest way to explain it. That was the simplest thing I could water my response down to: gentleness was not something I’d been given, and it frankly wasn’t something I felt like I deserved.
I was an angry, violent person. I was harmful and dangerous and —
“You do deserve it.”
I stiffened, and he caught my wrists and pinned them to my sides as he continued to slowly,gentlykiss my neck.
“I thought I told you to cut that shit out.” My words dripped with bitterness and I hated myself for it. Hated how petulant I sounded, how miserably angry.
“Since when do you tell me what to do?”
His response cut me to the quick. My first feeling was regret, because what the hell was wrong with me that I was talking to him like that? Then came fury, rebellion, because no one was in charge of me and I wasn’t going to just roll over and submit.
Then came fear, because I’d barked out words without thinking and that carried consequences. I wasn’t afraid of Manson himself, not truly. I wasn’t afraid he would hurt me, even though he could, and had, and would gladly do so again because it pleased both of us.
It wasn’t about fear of being beaten, like it had been with my father. I’d blurt out things to my Pops and just brace myself. Wait for the blows to start coming. I learned to blot out the pain, ignore the humiliation. Pretend it didn’t matter.
I wasn’t afraid of Manson abusing me.
I was afraid of him finally having enough, and walking away. It made me feel like a manipulative asshole. He deserved better, yet I expected him to stick around? How fucking toxic was that?
“Get out of your head, pup.”
Manson was looking at me sympathetically, but with a small smile that softened the pity. He laid his hand against my cheek, and I leaned into his warmth.
“Please don’t.” I inhaled shakily and a pathetic whimper accompanied my exhale. Furious with myself, I clenched my fists. “Don’t...don’t...”
“Don’t be kind to you? Fuck that.” He looked at me like I was something precious, something amazing. “You’re scared, I get it. Things are changing, and change is hard. Evengoodchange is so damn hard. I know. But you’re loved. You’re cared for. Every change that comes, we’ll handle it together.”
I was still shaking my head, stuck in a spiral. He pulled me away from the side of the garage, walking me backwards as we moved inside. He kept me upright when I nearly stumbled, guiding me with one hand on my waist and the other still cupping my face. When I finally bumped up against something, I looked back and realized that it was Jess’s BMW he’d pushed me up against.
“I’ve got you,” he said. He pulled off my shirt, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Then his hands spread over me, and I hissed at the cold touch of the car against my bare back. But he just laughed gently, and said, “I’m going to fuck those nasty thoughts out of you.”
