Page 82 of Reckless Vow

She sighs. “You said I can take it.”

Okay, that didn’t clarify much, but I sense she might continue so I remain silent. All the while I want to interrogate her and understand what triggered her reaction.

“I don’t know how to say it.”

Her admission fills the air with such gravity, I’m glad I’m holding her because it would knock me down.

Several beats pass as I hate myself, regret I ever went to New York, and feel grateful that I did.

Because I know I can fix it for her. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. Those loser boyfriends couldn’t, but I can.

I must. Even if I have to burn the fucking world down.

Brook steps back and takes a deep breath. She squares her shoulders and looks at me, but her eyes are a void. Like she doesn’t even see me.

I panic for a moment, because the vulnerable woman is gone and I can’t stand to lose her. Not yet.

“Almost ten years ago, I was assaulted.”

The words crash my world to the ground, dissolving every value, every security, every ounce of control I ever had.

I want to demand answers, draw blood, fucking kill someone, but all I do is stand frozen. The riot in my head prevails, as does the need to act.

The bitter, ugly, painful stillness of the moment is breaking me, but I need to let her lead this conversation.

That determination alone must be enough of an action for now.

She seems so far away, like she retreated to this other universe where she is strong enough to deal with the past.

“Give me a moment, please.” She raises her index finger.

“Of course.” The sound rasps through the lump in my throat. She can have all the time she needs to collect herself. Though she seems eerily calm.

She gives me a shy smile that I think is meant to reassure me. Of what I don’t know. And then she surprises me when she walks away. To the bathroom.

I hear water running, and when she emerges she’s wearing my black bathrobe. Of course, she won’t have this conversation half naked. Idiot.

But on some fucked-up level, I’m pleased she chose to wear my robe. Like in the absence of my touch, I can extend my protection through the garment.

“Can I have some water?”

It takes me a moment to register what she’s saying.

“Of course.” Fuck, I have no other vocabulary. What I have is a growing chest pain, a lack of oxygen, and an enduring need to kill someone.

I fill a glass with water, and when I turn back she’s sitting on the sofa. Through the mayhem in my head, I didn’t even hear her move. I’m not ready to listen to her. The realization is like a knife in my intestines, carving.

Moron. Listening is exactly what she needs.

She takes the glass from me and folds her legs under herself.

When I don’t move, she meets my eyes with an annoyed expression. “Sit over there.” She gestures to the other sofa.

The wound in my guts bleeds more because that’s too far from her, but I take the seat.

My ass barely hits the soft cushions when Brook starts talking. “Do you remember TJ, the checkout bagger at the supermarket who used to joke with us?”

I nod mindlessly, vaguely picturing the dude, but Brook doesn’t look at me and launches into a clinical recount of the facts.

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