There is something dark in the eyes that look back at me. “How can you, when there are still so many things you don’t know?”
He is not saying anything I haven’t thought of, but for a moment, I am afraid. What dark secrets does Damien have that still remain buried?
The thing is, I understand better than anyone why he wants the facade of the game in place if he’s going to try to open up to me. I cut myself in order to cope with the horrors of my childhood, but what did Damien do? Nothing except conquer the world and learn to bury his secrets deep.
I glance down at the books in the glass case, and can’t help the smile that touches my lips. Even the little things are a big step for Damien. But the shit in his past—the things like Sara Padgett and the guilt he felt over that poor girl’s suicide—those are the kinds of things that Damien needs to say with a net.
The truth rips through me. The game is his net.
And once that net is in place, doesn’t it make sense that the physical between us can strengthen the emotional?
Maybe I’m manufacturing a justification, but there’s no denying that I want what he’s offering. That desire, however, doesn’t quell the lingering fear that still bubbles inside me.
Damien must see my hesitation, because he reaches for my hand. Only then do I realize that I have been unconsciously twisting my once-abused left finger between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.
“Can you tell me?” he asks gently.
I swallow and try to will the words to come. “I’m scared,” I confess.
“Of what?”
“Of you,” I say, then immediately regret the words when I see confusion and hurt flash in his eyes. “No, no, not like that.” I move closer and press my palms against his cheeks. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“That does sound terrifying.”
I grin, grateful to him for putting me more at ease. “Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m using you.” I pause, waiting for him to make a joke about how he would be very happy for me to use him any way that I like. But he remains silent, watchful, and I realize that he understands how hard this is for me. “Like a crutch, I mean.” I think of the scars that mar my thighs. Of the string wrapped tight around my finger. Of the weight of a knife in my hand and the ecstasy of that first fiery sting when the blade slices through skin.
Most of all, I think of how much I’ve needed all of those things, and of the scars I now bear as testament to my weakness.
I swallow, then look down, not wanting to meet the eyes of this man who already sees so much inside me. “I’m afraid that you’re a replacement for the pain.”
“I see,” he says, but there is no emotion in the words. Not anger or hurt. Nothing.
And then there is silence.
I draw a breath, but I don’t look up. I’m too afraid of what I will see on his face.
Only seconds pass, but they are heavy, full of the weight of unsaid things. Then he tucks his fingertip under my chin and tilts my head so that I must either close my eyes or look at him.
I look and immediately have to blink back tears. Because it isn’t anger or hurt or pity that I see. It is adoration, and possibly even a little bit of respect.
“Damien?”
“Oh, baby.” He takes a step toward me, and I see the force of will that pulls him to a stop, staying just far enough from me to give me space, but close enough to give me strength. “Tell me—tell me what the pain does for you.”
“You know,” I say. I’ve told him all this before.
“Humor me.”
“It grounds me,” I say, as a tear rolls down my cheek. “It centers me. It gives me strength.”
“I see.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek, wiping away my tear.
“I’m sorry,” I say.