Page 95 of Lace 'em Up

That jolts through me.

“Princess,” but I don’t finish the denial that’s clinging to the back of my throat because she pushes up, those deep green eyes locking onto mine.

“Don’t,” she says. “I promised myself that I wouldn’t push you, but fuck that.” Her hands come to my cheeks. “Don’t deny it or put me off. You meant what you said in the car.”

“I—” But I just clamp my lips together, bite back the words.

Because what the hell can I possibly say about it?

Oh, you poor little brokenhearted boy, are you too scared to love again?

Fuck yes, I am.

And what will I look like in the eyes of this incredibly brave woman if I admit that?

A fucking coward.

Especially when she goes on, proving exactly how strong she is. “I accepted Phillip’s treatment of me because I thought it was the best I could have. No,” she whispers. “It was what I thought I deserved.”

“Princess,” I say, sitting up and drawing her against me. “You can’t honestly think that you deserve?—”

“They left me,” she murmurs and my arms tighten, drawing her gaze back to mine. “My mom.” A breath. “My dad.” Her throat works. “And my stepmom, stepsisters didn’t want anything to do with me when my dad was gone. They were cruel to me. They…” A breath. “They loved to see how much they could take from me, and…I got used to giving it, used to thinking that was all I could have, all I deserved. I thought the derision, the cruelty, the ostracizing, the pulling more than my fair share of weight at home, even the stealing from me was normal. It wasn’t until I really got to know Jean-Michel and Chrissy that I realized how dysfunctional my dynamic at home was and I cut contact with them. But did I use that knowledge when it came to Phillip? Nope.” She tosses her hands up. “I fell into the same damned patterns.”

Shit.

I draw her closer, bury my face in my hair, hating the sadness on her face, in her eyes, in those terrible words. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I say. “But you can’t expect yourself to be perfect in every moment. To make the right choice every single time.”

“Maybe not,” she says. “But doesn’t the same go for you?”

I freeze.

“Why do you hold yourself to a different standard?”

Because what’s tangling through my mind is nothing compared to what she endured.

And I need to get the hell over it.

She leans back. “I’m starting to come to terms with that little girl inside me, learning to wrap my arms around her and give her a hug, tell her that what she thinks isn’t true. Because of Jean-Michel and Chrissy. Because of Rome and Cam. Even because of your mom and how she accepted me with open arms without really knowing me.” A breath, her hand on my cheek again. “But mostly, I’m starting to realize all of this because of you.”

That hits like an actual blow to the abdomen, stealing my breath. “Princess, I didn’t do anything.”

“Except you did.” She shakes her head. “You’ve really?—”

Another blow, just a different variety.

“—helped me understand how this—how a relationship—can be. How a man can treat a woman. What I deserve.” She laughs, but it’s not amused, not really.

It’s sad again, and I fucking hate it when she’s sad.

“I was engaged,” I blurt.

Because this moment, what we’re building—it doesn’t feel fake.

It’s fucking…

Something.

She stills, those green eyes befuddled and beautiful and I just want to kiss her again, to fuck her until we’re both senseless so I don’t have to feel what I’m feeling. But, Christ, after everything, I owe her honestly.

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