Page 92 of Savage Heart

The man, himself answered, his rugged voice cutting through her thoughts. “I took that the day after the medical room was complete. You’d come in to do a final inspection of the space, and you’d just stopped in the middle of the room.” He stopped talking, then swallowed. “The look on your face…it was like looking at young, idealistic, heartful Liz…from before I’d torn our hearts out.”

Trouble had come into the room while she’d been mesmerized by the pictures, and he was holding a steaming mug in his hands. His Texas Hot Chocolate was dark chocolate, milk, cayenne pepper, and a dash of cinnamon. It was fucking delicious, and he knew how much she loved it when he’d made it…before….

“The day after the clinic was—” She gasped. “You were still being asshole Trouble to me then. Hell, that morning, I came into the common room to find you grinding against Amelia at the bar.”

Trouble’s face flushed with a sheepish, guilty expression. He dropped his gaze, and shrugged.

“I still loved you, even then, when I was being a piece of shit. I was still drawn to you, needing to be near you, see you…. I know it was unfair, disgusting, cowardly, but I hid so I could watch you. I took that picture, looked at it every fucking day, and I finally had it printed last week.”

In the silence that followed that revelation, Trouble handed Liz the mug and sat down beside her. She sipped the hot, chocolatey heaven, and hummed in contentment.

He chuckled softly. “Glad to see you still like it.”

She cocked a grin. “It’s still delicious.”

Unable to tear her appreciative gaze away from his ruggedly beautiful face, she could see when the humor he’d been using as a buffer to the pain fell away.

“I know what it’s like to be so scared, so desperate, the only thing you can think to do is protect yourself…violently,” he admitted, his voice so broken and heavy, her breath caught.

What was he saying?

He couldn’t mean—

“I killed my father.”

Trouble stared into the wide, unbelieving gaze of the woman he loved as he spoke the words that left him flayed, bleeding, andexposed—like a lone soldier, wounded, downrange, surrounded by enemy combatants.

“You…killed your father?” she repeated, croaking. Color leached from her face, her mouth dropping open in shock. He bit back a curse, but nodded. “Like…accidently?”

Holding his breath, he shook his head, and she followed the motion with her eyes.

“Not accidentally?” she rasped.

“No,” he declared, “I did it because the motherfucker had just killed my mother, and was going to kill me, too.”

Liz gasped, her empty hand flying to cover her mouth as tears flooded her beautiful eyes.

“Erik?” she breathed, the sound of his name on her lips both euphoria and torment, because it was the first time in so long…but it was the worst possible time.

Closing his eyes, he didn’t see her move, and when the touch of her hand against his jaw heated his flesh, he jerked back.

Why was she touching him? He was an asshole, a coward, a piece of shit.

“Tell me, Erik…tell me what happened,” she pleaded, the blue of her eyes deep and filled with agony…for him.

“My father was a piece of shit drunk, who cared more about his whiskey than his livelihood. We owned a piece of land outside Skimmer, a tiny town in southwest Texas. It wasn’t much to look at, didn’t grow much more than what we could use to feed ourselves, but it was home. Karl bought that land usin’ an inheritance he got from his grandfather, after he’d come to America from Norway, lookin’ for western riches. He thought he’d come to Texas, buy land, and strike oil like those hillbillies in the TV show. After ten years of scrapin’ by and breakin’ his back, he got married to the preacher’s daughter, thinkin’ that havin’ a wife to cook, clean, and open her legs every night wouldhelp alleviate some of the stress of runnin’ his farm into the ground.”

He sucked in a deep breath, then met Liz’s searching eyes—she was curious, but cautious.

“When they got married, my mother was eighteen…my father was forty.”

Liz gasped, then groaned in disgust. “What the fuck? That’s some medieval shit.”

Despite himself, he chuckled. “You’re right, but that’s small towns for you, especially in Texas. My mother married him, thinkin’ she’d have a good life away from her Bible thumpin’ pa and his righteous hand of discipline, but she ran headfirst from the fryin’ pan into the blazin’ fire. At first, according to Ma, he’d been a loud drunk, yellin’ and throwin’ things when he got to the bottom of the bottle. After I was born, though, things got worse. He got more drunk as the farm produced less goods, and the more drunk he got, the more violent. Got so bad that there wasn’t a day my ma didn’t have a new bruise—and I know there were far more where I couldn’t see ‘em.”

“Oh, Erik…” Liz breathed. Her hand on his face, Liz brushed her thumb over his cheek. The sensation of her gentle comforting touch made what he had to say next that much more agonizing.

“I hadn’t reached five yet when he started in on me, his hand, a board, a broken rake, a beer bottle—there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t use to ‘teach me respect’. By the time I reached the 4thgrade, I’d broke five bones, cracked seven ribs, and had more concussions than professional footballs players get in a lifetime.”

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