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Anger, from what I can feel of the energy rolling off her. Desire, if the way her body molds to mine means anything. Violence, if the quick, hard scratch of her nails against the door is any indication.
Keeping my voice soft so she doesn’t hear the truth of what I’m fighting, I study her face while giving my answer.
“Those bruises were from William.”
This would be a good place for her to confess what she’s doing around my father. Now that she knows he was hands on in what happened to us. The ringleader, really.
Emily says nothing on that subject.
It only pisses me off more.
“Why?” she asks, tears shimmering in her eyes, her lips moving against the soft press of my thumb.
I ignore the rage simmering in my blood at her refusal to admit what she’s doing. Ignore the whispers of memory.
Be a man!
Is that what I taught you?
Get the fuck up!
“Is that your third question?”
“Yes,” she says, then shakes her head. “I mean, no.”
Pure frustration rolls across her expression as she reaches up to grab my wrist and tug my hand from her face.
We stand silently, our shoulders moving with our breath, our chests pressed together and our legs tangled.
Between us, Emily’s fingers grip my wrist, her thumbnail pressing into my skin.
It causes just enough pain to snap me out of the fascination I have with her mouth so that my eyes lock with hers.
A grin tugs at my lips, half amusement at her frustration and half mockery because I’m intentionally causing her distress with vague answers.
Not that I ever planned to give her full answers. My only reason for coming here was to see if she’d admit what she’s doing behind my back.
“What’s your third question?”
The wheels are spinning again, the gears grinding.
Emily is perfectly still, the only movement is her fingers tightening on my wrist, her nail cutting into my skin.
I don’t mind the bite of pain. It helps focus me, helps keep me in the here and now rather than letting me slip into memory.
Somehow she settles on the one question I hoped she’d never ask.
“Did he make you hurt each other?”
I flinch at the memory her words drag to the surface, guilt eating me whole, fucking devouring me as a ticking bomb in my head counts down to its final seconds.
“He did,” she whispers when I don’t speak, an angry tear slipping from her eye to roll down her pale face. “You don’t need to answer that. I think I already know.”
Life doesn’t always make sense.
The heart is illogical.
Your soul can’t help what it needs.
