Embarrassment heats my neck, and I feel so filthy having to expose this. Hanging my head in shame, I keep my eyes downcast as I answer, “At some point, when we were kids, we started sleeping together in private. In his bed. It wasn’t forced, and in those moments, he’d make me feel okay.”
“Okay?” he questions in confusion, and when I hesitantly move my eyes to look up at him, I say, “I always felt gross and worthless. But something about Pike made me feel clean. He made me feel loved and safe. He was all I had in the world.” I begin to choke on my words, telling him, “And he did love me. He always protected me.”
“He raped you,” Declan spits through gritted teeth.
“No,” I defend. “He didn’t. He was being molested himself long before. Carl, our foster dad, he forced Pike to do that stuff to me.”
“He didn’t have to do it. He made the choice.”
“He knew if it wasn’t him, that Carl would do it himself. I was safer with Pike.”
“But Carl . . . did he . . . ?”
I nod. “Yes. It took a while, but eventually he did.” And then I admit, “The first time was when I was twelve. He raped me the same way you just did.”
Instantly, Declan has his arms around me and I’m crying. He grips the back of my head and cradles me tightly against his chest. His hold is strong and hard but warm. I band my arms around his waist, clinging to him.
He’s everywhere, all around me, encasing me in the safety of his touch.
Home.
When I begin to settle my emotions and calm myself, he whispers in my hair, “I’m sorry. I lost control on you.”
“It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not okay,” he declares when he pulls away to look at me.
“It is. I hurt you. I’m so sorry, Declan. You will never know how sorry I am for what I did to you. I deserve every punishment.”
“I don’t want to be that man.”
“You’re not. You’re nothing like that man,” I tell him. “There were times my mind went to that place with you, but you’re not like that. I’ve always felt safe with you. I’ve always been certain that you’d never really hurt me.”
“But I do hurt you. And I like it. And I want more of it.”
“Then take it. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything to make you feel better. If it’s my pain and suffering you need, then have it. It’s yours.”
His hands tighten on me as I speak, and with brows knit together and a locked jaw, he grunts in frustration when he releases me from his hold. Raking a hand through his hair, he growls, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t want me. What right-minded person would subject themselves to this?”
“I never claimed to be right-minded. I know I’m screwed up. I know I’m so far beyond damaged I’m irreparable. But I also know that you won’t find the same amount of satisfaction in punishing anyone but me.”
“Why do it then? Is it to make yourself feel better for what you did?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
Taking a few steps over to him, I say, “Because I love you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I do. I never thought anyone could have the power to make me feel as safe and clean as you do. You have the power to make me feel worthy of living. That somewhere out there, life just might have a purpose for me.”
“Then why leave me? Why didn’t you stay and call the medics? Why did you leave me to die?”
It’s in his words I hear the heartbreak I caused.
“I told you. I was scared. Everything was happening so fast, I didn’t know what to do. I panicked.”
He releases a slow sigh and takes a moment before speaking again. “I’m sure I already know, but I need to hear it from you.”
“What is it?”
“I know Pike is dead. And I know he died the same day he shot me.”
I swallow hard when he says this, and I already know his question before he asks, “Did you have anything to do with his death?”
My chin begins to quiver, and when I can’t hold on to my emotions any longer, my face scrunches as I confess, “I will never forgive myself for what I did. I loved him so much.”
“I need to hear you say it,” he says sternly.
Fighting back my tears, I take in a deep breath and let go of it slowly before giving him the trembling words, “I’m the one who shot him. I killed him.”
“I want to be mad at you. I want to throw it in your face, but that would make me a hypocrite, and it’s because of your lies.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing!” his voice rips when anger takes over. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you. Every time we talk, the shit you say . . . it’s impossible to understand and digest.”
He walks back to the center island, facing away from me as he looks out the windows.
“Get out,” he orders on a dead breath.
He’s unmoving as I walk around him to pick up my coat and keys, but the struggle is evident within him. I want to say a thousand words, but I know better. So I keep my mouth shut and do as I’m told.
I leave.
“WHAT ARE YOU doing back here, lassie?” Isla questions when I walk through the front door with my luggage.
“I missed my flight. Is it all right if I stay another night?”
“Stay as long as you like,” she says when she walks over and takes one of my bags. “Were you able to reschedule?”