Page 71 of Thrones We Steal

“You can’t know that.”

“C, if I told you what he did—” He breaks off.

“Who? What who did?” I pause. Think. Guess. “Your father?”

He doesn’t respond, but his steely eyes flash to mine. I have my answer.

“What did he do, Henry?” My voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “You know you can trust me.”

“I can’t tell you, C. It’s too nasty, too repulsive.” He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just say he has a thing for little boys.”

Without meaning to, I recoil. Something drops into my stomach, and I realize it’s my heart. He doesn’t need to elaborate any further.

Who could do something like that? To an innocent child? I swallow to keep the vomit at bay. Our conversation after the wedding flashes through my mind, when I accused him of disappointing his father. God, I am such an unfeeling jerk.

I reach for one of his hands and take it in mine, intertwining our fingers. “You can tell me whatever you want or need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers tighten around mine, but he remains silent. After several long minutes, he says, “I’ve never told anyone.”

“Not even your mum?”

He shakes his head.

“How old were you?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, probably trying to suppress the bile the memory stirred up. “The first time? I was five.”

Dear god, it happened more than once? Tears burn at the corners of my eyes. What kind of monster could do that to a child? “How long?”

His voice is cold as ice. “Six years. Until I was strong enough to fight him off. Or maybe he just lost interest, I don’t know.” My hand is still clenched in his and slowly turning numb from his tight grasp.

Despite my best attempts to hold them back, tears run down my cheeks. I bury my face in that space between his shoulder and neck, sharing in his pain, his trauma. All those years we were friends, spent countless hours together, and I never knew. Never even suspected.

Henry brings his hand up to cradle my head, his fingers gently stroking my hair, as though I’m the one who needs comfort. He presses a kiss against my temple. I know it’s the thank you he can’t voice.

Silently, he strokes my leg, the touch of his hand words enough. We remain that way for what could be hours. I lose track of time.

When my body tingles from staying locked in the same position for too long, I whisper, “Thank you for trusting me with this. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you back then.”

He stiffens beneath me. “You have nothing to apologize or be grateful for. I never should have told you.”

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone, Henry.” My left hand is still clutched in his death grip, but with the right I run a finger along the collar of his T-shirt. A thrill shoots through me at the way it makes him swallow, having my fingers so close to his skin.

“I should go,” I say. It’s true even if I make no move to act on it. I’ve never felt so close to another person before, not even in the throes of intimacy with Beck.

“Yeah, you should,” he says. He slides his palm up my leg until he reaches my hip. Pauses. Waits. “But I don’t want you to.”

He begins rubbing circles on the back of the hand he’s still holding, his thumb tracing rings of fire. The touch is so faint it’s only perceptible to my racing heart.

“Celia.”

That one husky, caressed word makes me quake and I’m jealous of my own name. He tilts his head until his lips are only a hairbreadth from mine, and then hesitates, as though he’s waiting for permission.

My body doesn’t need another invitation. I incline my head the millimeter needed, and our lips meet in a tumultuous reunion, hungry and passionate. His fingers dig into the back of my head, losing themselves in my hair, my ponytail a distant memory. I move my hands to that stupidly incredible jawline and pull him closer. He groans against my mouth.

He yanks me against himself and his hands begin to explore my body. Everywhere he touches explodes with crazy desire. I slide my hands over the chiseled planes of his chest, then slip them underneath his shirt. My sweater becomes putty in his hands: wadded, tugged, lifted, removed.

He breathes my name again as he gazes at my body, and then I’m putty in his hands. The look on his face is a mixture of painful desire and awe, even though I know he’s seen plenty of women wearing less than I am. He glides his hands around my waist and captures my mouth with his once again.

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