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“Then whatdoyou think? Why am I still locked in this room? Why are avoiding me? You’re messing with my head,” I accuse, standing so I can face him. “I don’t want to play games. I’m scared out of my mind, and I can’t be worrying about your mood changes giving me whiplash too.”
He flinches as if I’ve hit him, and I’m not proud to admit it, but I get a little satisfaction from his suffering. It doesn’t fix my own, but it helps.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats as if that fixes everything.
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not. “We don’t have to be a couple, Rage. We can raise our baby together and be separate. I think that’s probably the best thing for us to do.”
The look on his face tells me he does not agree. “I don’t think we need to be apart, Skye, but maybe we just take things slower.”
“I wasn’t the one who kissed you,” I remind him. “Why did you do it if you were just going to pull away?”
His chin lowers to his chest, his eyes locked on the floor, and for a moment, he doesn’t look like a dangerous biker. He’s just a lost boy, and I don’t know how to help him.
“Rage? What happened?”
“I… you make me lose control,” he blurts out.
His words hit me like a wrecking ball to the chest. What does that even mean?
“I don’t… I don’t mean to.”
He tears his fingers through his hair again, something I notice he does when he’s stressed. This time, he couples it with pacing the room like a caged beast. “It ain’t your fault.” His words are shaky, and I hold my breath, uncertain what to do or say. I’m so out of my depth right now. “I was dealing with my anger. Hawk and the others were helping me. Then you turned up, and now, I feel like a powder keg waiting to explode. I can’t let go of the rage inside me and protect you and my child. But I’m terrified if I let it control me again, I might hurt you both.”
The lump in my throat is hard to breathe around. He’s laying himself bare to me. “Rage…” I whisper his name, unsure what else to say.
“I can’t do it. I won’t become him, Skye. I won’t allow it.”
Become who?
My brows knit together as he continues to rant and pace. “I’ve got used to having that anger contained. For months, I’ve been in command of it, and now, it’s slipping again, and it’s because of you and the baby. I can’t let it take over. I do stupid shit when I’m angry.”
I don’t remember rounding the bed, but suddenly, I’m in front of him, my hands cupping his face. His eyes scan mine, and I hate the turmoil I see warring within them.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He swallows hard. “You should be.”
I risk stroking my fingers over his cheeks, the coarse hair of his beard rough against my skin. He doesn’t pull away or try to leave the room, which I take as a good sign.
“Is this why you’re avoiding me? You think I’m some big catalyst for your anger?”
“You are,” he says. “I feel this constant tightness in my chest and a nonstop feeling of panic since you came here.”
I snort at this. “I have that too. It’s impending parenthood. I’m terrified, but I’m not scared of you.”
“I’ve killed. I’ve beaten men to death in fits of anger.”
He’s trying to shock me, and he does, but not enough to turn me away from him. I’ve spent my entire life surrounded by murderers and bad men. Rage doesn’t scare me.
“Join the club,” I say. “I ran a man over after beating my best friend with a fucking tray.”
“Ain’t the same. You did what you needed to in order to save yourself. There’s an evil in me, one that I can’t stop. What if I lose it and kill you or our kid?”
Cold spreads through my belly at the thought, and it should give me pause, but I refuse to believe him capable of that. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.” His words bite, and I sense his frustration. “This anger inside me, I can’t contain it.”
“Why are you so angry?”
