Page 58 of Claiming Charlotte

Singed papers followed suit, most of them being past due bills I’d paid years ago. It was junk. But directly underneath that I found folded neatly the baby blanket my mother had saved for me from my toddler stage. Once blue, it was now covered in soot and parts of the crocheted thread were coming apart.

I touched it gently, memories of myself as a child carrying that same blanket with me anywhere, I went. I remembered that it always seemed to smell like my mom, and it gave me comfort for a long time. Even as a grown man, when I needed to feel her presence, I would dig it out of the closet. I picked it up and buried my face in it. Somewhere within the smell of smoke and chemicals and years past, the smell of her still lingered, and I couldn’t help but cry.

She’d be so disappointed in me if she were alive, and I couldn’t help but wonder if her gentle words could have persuaded me to make things right with Charlotte. Sniffling and wiping my cheeks off, I set the blanket aside and continued my treasure hunt.

Burned photographs of Charlotte took up a corner of the box, and on the other side were the paintings she’d made for me; the one of my mother and me, and the other one was the painting of herself.

The sight of them brought fresh tears to my eyes as the events of the last few months hit me. I sat back down on the bed with the paintings in hand. I knew it would be nearly impossible to fix what was broken, but I had to hold out hope that Charlotte would one day want me back.

Looking at the broken and burned memories saddened me, but I vowed that I wouldn’t succumb to the sadness any longer. I’ll rebuild my home… I thought, and I hoped that one day she would want to share the space with me. Maybe she could heal in a place that wasn’t a constant reminder of the things she lost. She seemed to do pretty well at the cabin, so if I rebuilt my family home and asked her to move in, maybe it would help her.

I understood that I was probably scaring her with the things I’d done, and I could admit to myself that I lost myself briefly within my own anger and need for revenge. I knew I’d been angry, but I didn’t realize how angry and distant I’d really been. One thing that Charlotte was right about was that no amount of bodies would take away the feeling of anger, failure, and hurt. I was compensating for something I’d failed at by making sure I would never fail again, and in the meantime I’d failed at helping her heal. I’d walked away from her when she needed me the most.

A nagging feeling in the back of my mind told me that she would never trust that I wouldn’t relapse again. She knew I’d never stop hurting people, and if she took me back she’d always be terrified of me walking away again. I hadn’t been the one to break her, but I’d finished the job.

The sound of my phone pinging pulled me out of my thoughts, and I blinked away my tears. Wiping my nose, I opted to ignore the message and keep looking through the box. But what if it’s her…

I couldn’t quell my curiosity any longer. Picking up the phone, I read the message.

“I love you. Please come home.”

Maybe her request wasn’t so far-fetched, I had been doing research and it's…normal. I think. We both needed to let everything go in order to move on. If treating her like she wanted me to would help her heal, why shouldn’t I?

I’ll do it. One last time…

Charlotte

Roe never responded to the message, though I’d stayed up most of the night hoping and waiting. Sleep finally overtook me, and I drifted amid the warm silkiness of my comforter. But just as I was about to have the sweetest dream ever, I felt my blanket being ripped off my bed and my eyes shot open.

A hand closed around my throat, and another clamped tightly over my mouth as I was dragged from the safety of my bed. I tried to scream, panic overtaking me, but only a muffled moan escaped around the grasp of the hand. I clawed at the hand that was closing off my airway, hoping I’d be able to scratch hard enough to make my attacker let me go. They're not taking me. I'm not going back.

Vivid memories of Walker with his hand around my neck rose to my mind, and I began to hyperventilate. I screamed Rowan’s name into the hand on my mouth in vain, forgetting that he wasn’t there to protect me. I’m on my own this time.

I recoiled my hand and used the strength I had in my sleepy state to wriggle and elbow them right in the abdomen, causing a painful grunt to leave their lips. I moved fast trying to grab at the mask on their face attempting to rip it clean off. I’m a fighter, they may have had me before, but never again.

They let go and I ran for the door as fast as my shaky legs could take me. My office. That would be the safest place…I think. Most of my men were on assignments, and after everything I preferred for them to have homes of their own, letting Rowan and I run things how we saw fit, and Charlie’s room was on the other side of the house, I would never make it to get help from him. As I ran, it felt like the hallways stretched, gaining feet with every step I took.

The footsteps came closer and faster and I took off down the stairs and cried out tripping about halfway down when I turned to look back. Slowly I rose and I limped toward the kitchen ripping through drawers, the only light illuminating from above the sink.

A meat cleaver was the only thing I could find in the haste, so I picked it up with shaky hands, whipping around when I heard a sinister chuckle. They towered over me, and I immediately took a swing aiming for the person’s head, but I was too slow and my wrist was grabbed with ease. I yelped as they placed pressure on my wrist, squeezing. I had to let go of the cleaver, and my body was being crushed between the sink and their body.

“I’m not scared of you,” I whispered menacingly. “Do your worst. It can’t be compared to anything I’ve already been through.”

A deep-rooted laugh sounded from them as their thumb brushed across my bottom lip and my eyes widened when the long metal handle of the meat cleaver touched my lips.

“Suck it.” They growled. “Cry for me as I shove it so far down your throat, it comes out of your ass.”

I had nowhere to go and survival mode kicked in, so I did it. My tongue swirled around the metal until I moved my lips back and forth taking as much as I could down my throat and the asshole groaned at every gag that came the further it was pushed down my throat and tears sprung to my eyes. Tightening his hand around my throat he held it there, and I gasped for breath.

“I can’t wait to have that pretty mouth around my cock. Taking a seven inch face-fucking. But right now, I want to feel you.”

“Fuck. You.” And I spit onto his mask.

I flinched when his hand moved close to my face before fisting in my hair and forcing my front, bending me over against the sink.

“Plug it and turn the water on,” he ordered.

I clenched my jaw in defiance but didn't move.

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