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“Don’t.”
My gaze cuts to her. “Don’t what?”
Apple reaches for my hand and links her fingers with mine. “Don’t feel like you have to act like the big tough man around me.” She shrugs. “We all have issues, Malice. They don’t make us weak. They make us who we are.”
“I’m fine,” I snarl and pull away from her.
Swinging my legs over the edge of bed, I sit with my back to her and try to get my heart rate to return to normal. Under other circumstances, I’d be doing everything in my power to make her heart rate match mine, but these aren’t normal circumstances.
And a good fuck won’t take away the memories, won’t make all the wrongs right again.
“I think I’m gonna grab a shower,” I tell her as I stand. Reluctantly, I face her and force a grin. “I had fun today.”
Apple scrambles from the bed and walks around to stand in front of me. Her eyes are bright with emotion, but I can’t quite place it.
“You shouldn’t keep stuff bottled up,” she says quietly. “It’ll only cause more pain in the long run.”
“Pain,” I scoff and push past her to stalk toward my dresser. “What the fuck do you know about pain?”
“I know enough.”
“Apple, just… let it go.”
I yank open the top drawer and pull out a clean pair of boxer briefs. As I’m digging through another drawer for some sweats, Apple steps up behind me and rests a delicate hand on my back.
Immediately, I stiffen.
“I thought…”
I whirl around when her voice trails off, and she stumbles back a step as if I hit her.
“You thought what?” I bark. “That I took you out on my bike so now you’re entitled to my life story? Or is it that you can’t save my brother, so you figure you’ll try to save me?” I lean down and put my face so close to hers our noses almost touch. “I got news for ya… I can’t be saved. And even if I could, I don’t want to be. Not by you, not by anyone!”
I expect her to back down, to shrink in on herself like a wilting flower, so when she squares her shoulders and glares at me, I’m stunned. Not many men stand up to me, at least not many outside my inner circle. And here she stands, a tiny slip of a woman, and she doesn’t appear the least bit scared.
“Answer me one question, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“What?”
“Why did you say ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned’?”
No! No, no, no.
My knees threaten to buckle, and my head spins. Black spots dance in my vision, yet somehow, I remain upright.
“Malice?” she prods and takes a step toward me.
I hold my hand out to make her stop, and she does. My heart cries out for her to ignore me, to press herself against me and take away the hurt, but my soul screams like a banshee to keep her away, to protect her from all that I am.
“Malice, talk to me.” As if she recognizes the war I’m waging with myself, she tentatively takes another step forward. “I know I can help if you’ll—”
The beast that has taken up residence in my being roars to life. “You wanna help?! Okay, fine.” I whirl around, gripping the neck of my shirt as I do, and yank it off over my head. She gasps, and I growl, “Can you help with this?”
Silence is my only answer. My breathing is ragged, and my chest feels like it’s going to explode. I’ve never willingly shown my back to anyone other than the tattoo artist who inked over the scars on my eighteenth birthday. Sure, other women have seen me naked. I’m not a monk, after all. But no one has ever cared to look close enough to see what’s hidden beneath the large wooden cross that spreads across my shoulder blades and down my spine.
Fingers trace down my spine, over the tattoo and ribbons of raised flesh underneath. Her touch is featherlight, as if she fears hurting me, and the hair on my arms stands on end.
“Who did this to you?”
