Those dark eyes held no warmth and that heart held no capacity to care.
Reeling back, I ran into my father who was following close behind. He held me up while I wanted to crumble to the floor, his support always staunch and stoic.
How had I ever compared the two?
Lyrik and Cameron.
Because I recognized the difference. The difference between broken and depraved.
I was sworn in and took the stand. I could feel the weight of those terrorizing eyes locked on me. As if with just a look, he could back me into another corner. Hold me hostage in that dirty, disgusting room.
Memories spun.
Pain.
I couldn’t look up. Couldn’t bring myself to meet his eye.
Trembling, I gripped the edge of the chair to keep myself from fleeing. Feet aching to move.
I couldn’t do this.
I couldn’t do this.
Sickness clawed at my spirit, breath locked in my throat.
Panic welled.
But I had to stay.
For me.
For Madeline.
For the shame. For the guilt I had born. To put away this man who had belittled and oppressed and abused. To ensure he could never do it again.
I just didn’t know how to lift my head.
“Ms. Gibson, can you tell us when you first met Cameron Lucan?” The female prosecutor stood a couple feet away from me, prodding me with sympathy woven through her voice.
“Ms. Gibson?”
Run.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Tighter than before.
Trembles rolled as awareness spread, my heart rate kicking up a notch, this disoriented comfort soothing across my skin.
I puffed out a breath and slowly lifted my head.
Drawn.
That magnet that wouldn’t let me go.
Inky eyes stared back at me, that intimidating, confusing boy like a vision where he stood just inside the courtroom door. My pulse hammered and sped, my mind and heart at war, fighting the stark relief in his presence and the echo of his cutting words.
Silently, he took two steps forward, his gaze unwavering as he slid into the very back bench. Still, he may as well have been under a spotlight, all that wicked beauty a lure, tattoos standing out against his crisp, dark gray suit.
Gritty and straight-laced.
Hard and so unbearably soft.
Edged in hostility and bleeding calm.
A blatant, bold contradiction.
So destructive and compelling it was impossible to look away, the man poised to strike and set you aflame.
But I was already on fire.
Burned by this man.
And I ached beneath his stare that filled with sorrow, that pouty mouth tipped down at the corners.
Why?
I blinked, and tears streaked down my face.
Why?
Why are you here?
Why do you keep doing this to me?
My tongue darted out to wet my bottom lip as I tried to get myself together. To focus on the reason I was here.
“Ms. Gibson,” the prosecutor said again, this time a prod.
Lyrik tipped his head. Gently.
Brave, beautiful Blue.
Promising me I had the strength.
Reminding me I’d had it all along.
I blinked myself away from that comforting face and turned my attention back to the prosecutor. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She shook her head. “It’s okay. I understand this is difficult for you. Let’s start again. Can you tell us when you first met Cameron Lucan?”
I cleared the lump from my throat, though the words trembled. “I was nineteen. It was summer and I was working at a diner when he first came in…”
Throat raw. Mouth dry. Fingers twisted in knots. That’s how I delivered my testimony, the memories brought to life with the power of a projection on a 3-D movie screen. Bile churned in my stomach as I relived every moment, the way he’d twisted and manipulated until my will was no longer my own. How the physical scars ran almost as deep as the emotional. The confession slid like venom from my tongue. Sharp as a dagger and heavy as a stone.
Horror and hate.
“Thank you, Ms. Gibson,” she said quietly. As quiet as the rest of the room that seemed to hold a collective breath, for a moment also prisoners to the atrocities meted at Cameron’s hand.
Caution laced her tone. “Ms. Gibson, do you recognize the person you just described in your testimony to be seated in this courtroom?”
“Yes,” I whispered, even though up to that point, I’d still refused to look that way.
“Can you please point to where that person is seated?”
My eyes dropped closed and the pressure built. So strong and intense. Because even after all the words that had flowed from my mouth, this felt like the culmination of it all.
The moment I finally took a stand.
The moment I stood against Cameron Lucan.
My eyes fluttered open, landing on the boy. My boy. Even if he would never truly belong to me. His jaw was rigid, anger rippling from him in waves that touched me like soft encouragement.
And I didn’t give myself time to question the reason Lyrik West was here. To question his motives or desires or needs.
Because right then, I knew he was there for me.