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"You and I both know that isn't true," I croak, my own voice cracking under the strain. I swallow hard, wincing, my throat is so sore.
"It hurts?" he asks, reaching up to press his fingers gently against the skin on my neck.
"A little," I lie. It hurts a lot.
"Then rest your voice, we can communicate the way we used to if you want?"
"I’ll rest later. There is one question I want to ask you, if that's okay?"
"Sure," he replies, cupping my neck gently, his thumb rubbing over my pulse as it flutters wildly beneath my skin from his touch.
"What secret are you hiding? Why does it hurt you so much to sing?"
"That's two questions," he replies, dropping his gaze so he doesn't have to meet my eyes.
I wait, sliding my legs out from beneath me to get more comfortable. We're both steeped in the sunlight that warms the small patch of stone we're sitting on. Carrick's dark brown hair is highlighted with streaks of mahogany, his eyes lit with shards of sunlight as he replies.
“I’ve never told anyone this,” he admits.
“Not even Arden or Lorcan?” I whisper, forcing the words out even when they hurt me to speak.
“Not even them… Though I suspect they know and have respected my choice not to talk about it.”
He drops his gaze to our joined hands, his thumbs rubbing across the back of my knuckles. I wait, giving him time to summon the courage to tell me what haunts him so badly.
“I was sent to Silver Oaks Institute because I almost killed a man when I was fourteen,” he whispers, pausing for a moment, as though waiting for me to get up and run at his confession.
I don’t.
I keep still, quiet.
“Arden and Lorcan know about that, just like the whole village where we grew up did, but no one knows the real reason why I almost beat my singing teacher to death. Arden’s family suspected, and that’s why I was sent to Silver Oaks for rehabilitation and not jail. They pulled some strings. My singing teacher was threatened. No one spoke of it again.”
Carrick absentmindedly reaches for the spot on his collarbone where I bit him all those years ago, as though the reminder of the pain soothes him. Given what I already know about Carrick and his needs, it probably does.
“I loved singing in the choir at church. I loved it so fucking much,” he continues, stroking my knuckles once more. “It was like I was a different person when I sang. I could hold the attention of the whole congregation every time I opened my mouth. They were enraptured, and it made me feel so good about myself. But it wasn’t just that, I felt at peace when I sang. I knew I was special… The problem was so did he.”
For a long minute silence spreads out between us as a deep sense of foreboding settles in my stomach. I already know where this is heading, my body sensing the impending horror as nausea churns in my stomach. I so badly want to soothe away his trauma, but I know if I move a muscle or say a word he might not continue. So I keep silent and wait.
“The first time my singing teacher touched my dick, I was so shocked that all I could do was let him. They say in times of great stress and trauma you either fight or you run. I did neither. I clammed up. I became a statue as he fisted my cock and made me hard.”
Carrick’s fingers squeeze my wrists tightly as he blows out a deep exhale. He’s trembling now, and it takes a great deal of effort not to climb into his lap and hold him, soothe him.
“I couldn’t understand how my body could betray me so much. I didn’t run. I didn’t make a sound, but I came all over his hand nevertheless. He abused me for another three weeks, always fisting my dick, always making me come, until one day I didn’t let him. That day I beat him so badly he was left unconscious with a fractured skull, shattered jaw and cheekbone, and several broken ribs. I didn’t sing again willingly until that night in the chapel at Silver Oaks. You found me at my most vulnerable and I hated you for seeing what no one else had,” he admits, lifting his gaze to meet mine.
The pain and regret I see in his eyes has me cupping his face gently as I try to imbue him with care and affection, understanding and forgiveness. “It’s okay,” I whisper.
“You tried to run, and I wanted to hurt you for witnessing what you did,” he continues. “Then you bit me, and it was like all the memories and the trauma just disappeared, replaced instead with pain. I remember thinking afterwards how cruel it was that you, the person I hated, were the only one who’d given me respite. Not the therapist at the school, not my best friends, but you. I thought you’d put a spell on me, and in a way I guess you had.”
“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” I say, forcing his chin up to look at me.
“You saved me that day, Cyn. You provided me with a way to cope with the trauma, and I repaid you in the worst possible way. Will you ever forgive me?”
“I forgave you a long time ago, Carrick,” I croak.
“How will I ever repay you?” he asks, drawing me into his arms.
I climb into his lap willingly, curling my body against his, burying my nose in the warmth of his neck, breathing him in. “You saved my life,” I whisper in response. “We’re even.”
