I open my mouth to speak, but I cannot. I can only shake my head, wanting to deny what he has so obviously seen.
His takes my hand, and though it is only our fingers that are touching, it feels as though his strength is running through me. “I’ve seen the lock, the tattoo, and I can guess what it means. I should have guessed in Atlanta.”
I look away, unable to meet his eyes.
“You shouldn’t have to bear that kind of burden. And if I added to the weight of it, I am so damn sorry.”
I look at him now, my throat thick and my eyes burning. “You didn’t,” I say. “Not really. Oh, god.” I draw in a breath and raise my hand to my mouth, then bite down on the soft flesh at the base of my thumb. “I want to cry—I really, really want to cry right now. I’m full up with tears,” I say, feeling almost like I’m drowning in my own emotions.
“Then let go,” he says, moving to sit beside me and gathering me in his arms.
I manage a half-laugh, then press close. “I can’t. I haven’t cried since I was fourteen.”
He pushes a lock of hair off my forehead, then slowly trails his fingers down my shoulder to my back. “‘It is some relief to weep,’” he quotes. “Ovid.”
I draw in a stuttering breath, picturing the tattoo in my mind. The delicate blue tears. The precise lines of the script in which Cass had inked that quote upon the shoulder blade where his hand now rests.
“It would be relief,” I say with an ironic smile. “If I could manage it.”
“It’s some relief, too, to talk about it,” he says. He strokes my hair, and despite everything, I feel safe. “Can you tell me who?”
I close my eyes, because I don’t want to think about it.
Except that’s stupid, because somehow, some way, I seem to always be thinking of it.
“Was it your brother?”
“No!” The answer is fast and vehement and true. “No, Ethan doesn’t even know about it.” I can hear the panic in my voice. Oh, god, if Ethan ever found out the real story … I shiver, as determined as always to protect my baby brother.
“I saw the way you looked at dinner after you got his text.”
“He’s coming in a few weeks. He wants us to go visit our parents. They’re in Irvine. They moved there from Brentwood when Ethan graduated from high school.”
“And that’s bad?”
I take a deep breath and remind myself that not only am I awake, but Jackson has handed me back control on a silver platter. I can talk about this, and I will be okay.
“Not Irvine—as far as I’m concerned distance is good. And I can’t wait to see my little brother. He was really sick when he was a kid, and we were incredibly close. He—he got better.”
I draw in a breath, determined not to think about the price of my brother’s health. “Complete recovery,” I say, hurrying on with my story. “And he’s been living in London for over a year now.”
“But not your parents.”
I look down and realize that I’ve twisted my hands together so much my fingers hurt. “The man—the one who raped me—” I take a breath, realizing that I haven’t said that word since I told Cass this same story. “He was a friend of my father’s. I called him Bob.” Just saying the name makes me shiver. “And I got a job with him when I was a freshman. My dad set it up. So I’m not very good with the family-dynamic thing. I kind of shut myself off, you know?”
He nods. “So you were fourteen?”
“Yes.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact. The only way to get through this is to just say it. Like I’m summarizing business documents. “It started then.”
I see the way he flinches at the word “started,” and I’m grateful he doesn’t ask how long it went on.
“And your parents?”
“I haven’t told anybody,” I say, which isn’t actually an answer to his question. “I told my friend Cass, but that’s it.”
“No professionals? No therapy?”
“I’m not interested in spilling my troubles to strangers. No way am I handing that kind of intimacy and control to someone I don’t even know.”
“You need help.”
“I’ve got my own kind of therapy. I’ll be fine.”
“But you’re not fine,” he says reasonably, and the worry is plain on his face.
I turn away. He’s right, of course, but I’m not going to admit it.
“All right, then. If you won’t get help from a professional, you’ll get it from me.”
“Jackson …”
“What? I’m the problem? I’m not. I’m the man who—”
My chest tightens, hearing a word that he hasn’t said. “What?”
He hesitates. “I’m the man who’ll fight your demons,” he says, and I can’t help but smile. Because in my mind, that is who he has always been. In reality, though …
“A nice sentiment,” I say, “but I’m already fighting them.”
“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re not winning.”
“Please,” I say, and I can hear the strain in my voice. “Can we just drop it? At least for now?”
The expression on his face is so wretched it almost tears me in two. “I made it so much worse for you,” he says, then kneels beside me and cups my face. “I’m sorry.”
“No. You haven’t. I just need it out of my head for a while.”
“You need rest. Come on. I’m going to carry you to bed. Nobody should be up this early on a Sunday.”
He shifts so that he can stand, and I press my hand against his thigh.
“Wait.”
The muscle of his thigh is tense beneath my hand, like a spring ready to explode. His entire body seems to quiver with the struggle of restraint, and when his eyes meet mine, I see the moment when realization hits him. “No,” he says, his voice as taut as a wire. “That’s not what you want. Not now.”
“Please,” I say, because right then he is exactly what I need. “Help me fight my demons. Tuck me up in bed like a child and it will feel like he’s won. Like he’s taken something from me.”
He cocks his head, his blue eyes as sharp as lasers and at least as penetrating. I hold his gaze, wanting him to see not only what I need, but what I want.
“Please,” I repeat after another moment clicks by. “Don’t you get it? I wanted you so desperately last night, but not like that. Not when it felt like revenge. Like you wanted to fuck me out of your head or something.”
“Oh, baby.” He cups my cheek in his palm. “I never wanted you out of my head. Just the opposite. I wanted you too damn much.”
“Then stay with me.” I don’t have the words to tell him how much I need this. How much I need him. And I can only hope that he can hear it in my voice. “I need you. And oh, dear god, I’ve missed you.”
“Sylvia.” My name is so soft that it’s little more than air upon his lips. Then he cups my head in both hands and pulls me toward him. “I’m going to make love to you, Syl. And if you don’t want me to do that, you need to say something right now.”
I say nothing, merely tilt my head back and part my lips in silent invitation.
And when he bends his head to mine—when he brushes his lips softly over my mouth as if testing this new reality—I cannot help the moan of acquiescence and pleasure.