Page 114 of Tell Me Something True

“Don’t,” she snapped, whipping her head around to meet his gaze, unsure which of them was more surprised by her sharp tone. “Don’t minimize what it meant for me to trust my physical, mental, and emotional well-being with you just because you’ve always been the hero of the story. Believe it or not, not everything is about you. Some people’s reactions to you have nothing to do with you and everything to do with what they’ve been through. How they’ve been hurt. So when I tell you I trusted you to not to hurt me,” she continued, voice shaking, hands trembling, “that’s not something I say or take lightly. And I will not sit here and let you take it lightly, either.”

She was breathing hard, and there was a fiery sensation in her chest, like a bonfire burning bright and hot, the shooting flames licking at the edges of her deeply entrenched fears, her worry of reprisal.

Part of her wanted to smother them. To protect herself.

Another part wanted to fan them into an inferno.

Just to see what would happen.

“You’re getting better at that,” Miles said quietly, an edge of pride in his tone. “At being angry.”

Wiping her damp palms down the front of her jeans, she exhaled a humorless laugh. “Am I? It doesn’t feel that way.”

It felt like she was on the verge of losing control. Her face was hot and, more than likely, a red, blotchy mess. She was sweating, each muscle of her body tense, ready to run.

Or pummel something.

It was terrifying not knowing what she was capable of. What would happen if she let herself feel all these unsettled and dangerous emotions.

Especially when she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to handle them.

“Must be something about me, then, that gives you plenty of practice getting pissed.”

His tone remained mild. Calm. As if he fully accepted her anger as part of his due and would gladly take it on.

As if he was strong enough for both of them.

“You do seem to be the common denominator,” she agreed, not sure what that said about him. Or her.

Or those annoying, lingering feelings for him she was trying so hard not to acknowledge.

He shifted in his seat, facing her more fully. “I don’t take it lightly,” he said, his words quiet, his dark gaze solemn. “Your trust in me not to hurt you. And I shouldn’t have acted like I did.”

Some of that burning sensation eased with his sincerity. “Thank you.”

His gaze flickered away a moment. He swallowed. “That night at my house… the things I said… the things I made you do…”

I won’t say please. I won’t ask you for permission.

Once again, she wished she had the right to touch him. Instead, she linked her fingers together and kept them tucked safely in her lap.

“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do. I trusted you. I believed you.”

“You trusted me that night with your body. But you’ve never trusted me with your past.”

She sat up. “That’s not true.”

Although it was partly true. Wasn’t that the problem with the truth?

It was rarely black or white. Each tiny omission, every slight embellishment and understatement had those colors bleeding together into multiple shades of gray.

“I trusted you with it tonight. I trusted you with it that night in your kitchen. Do you know how hard it is for me to trust anyone? How terrifying? But I’m trying. I’m trying,” she repeated, voice rising, that burning sensation back in her chest, hotter than ever. “That should count for something. That should be enough. Especially when you don’t trust me, either. And you never did. That’s why you never told your family about me. That’s why you refused to talk about your nightmares or share your grief over your parents’ deaths with me.”

Irritation flickered across his expression, his gaze going hooded. “Is this where you tell me, again, what I felt? What I thought? Whether or not my own feelings were real?”

She remembered what she’d told him that evening in his kitchen.

You didn’t love me. You needed me.

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