Page 100 of Power of the Mind

I snagged the paper bag with my cookie from where he’d put it out of reach and opened it. “Share with me.”

It wasn’t a question, and when I broke off a piece and held it to Diem’s mouth, his features conveyed confusion.

But he let me feed him the morsel.

His hands balled into tight fists and rested on the couch beside his thighs. He wouldn’t touch me, and I was beginning to understand why. Touch for Diem had never been kind or loving. Touch was aggressive and punitive. Touch resulted in pain and injury. Touch was used to show domination and hatred. To enforce rules. To expel anger or frustration. After a childhood of knowing no other kind of touch, Diem had learned the same. He’d used his fists and had hurt a lot of people as a teen andyoung adult. He recognized his faults. He’d grown and done all he could to better himself, but in the end, no one had shown him that touch could be positive. Touch could be good.

Now, as a grown adult in his thirties, he was too afraid to take a chance because the last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt me. Diem was convinced he was going to screw up. No thanks to his father, he didn’t have faith he could grow and learn to be better.

I broke another piece of cookie and ate it before motioning to his rigid hands. Instead of demanding he touch me, I asked, “Can you do it?”

Diem didn’t need me to elaborate. Lips in a firm line, he glanced at his balled fists then back to me. Slowly, cautiously, he unfurled his fingers and moved his hands to my waist. The contact was light and hesitant, but it was something.

I fed him more of the cookie, letting him get used to the experience and closeness. We didn’t talk about what was happening. We didn’t rehash his stories of the past or discuss the future. I let him sit with his emotions and feel them.

Get used to them.

I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know Diem’s brain was a hurricane, and my actions had overloaded his processing center. When the cookie was gone, I brushed a thumb over his bottom lip, wiping away crumbs.

Eye contact had vanished several minutes ago. Diem kept his gaze lowered. His taut muscles and stilted breathing were my only indications of how he was faring: Not great, but no worse than when I started down this road.

I leaned closer, intent on whispering something in his ear, but Diem shrugged away from the connection and shook his head.

“I want to say something.”

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“No.” He squirmed. “Don’t… Not that ear.”

Without realizing it, it was the disfigured ear I’d leaned toward. For as outwardly gruff and indifferent as the man could seem, he was sensitive about his appearance. He was aware of what others saw. The scars. The damage. The sizzling anger under his skin.

But most people were superficial and refused to look deeper.

“What happened?” It was stupid to ask. Diem’s secrets ran deep. Be it his tattoos, scars, or other damage to his body, he didn’t like to discuss it.

Pain crumpled his features. “Tallus—”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to tell me.”

Diem shifted his weight, jostling me on his lap. He seemed to want to escape, but then he settled. Quietly, he said, “Frostbite. I was eight.”

Frostbite? Not what I’d expected. I’d considered every possibility of violence, but not something caused by nature. I was about to make a comment. Something stupid, no doubt, about how it was an unfortunate fact of living in a cold climate and how children don’t always understand the risks of not wearing a hat when it’s cold, but then, without prompting, Diem elaborated.

“My father locked me out of the house when I didn’t hang up my winter gear after school one day. He said I must not value what his hard-earned money bought, and the next time he got paid, he would spend it on himself and not me since I was an ungrateful bastard. He made me sit outside in the backyard for five hours after dinner that night in minus eighteen degree weather without a coat, hat, boots, or mitts. It was to teach me a lesson in appreciation. I almost lost two toes as well, but the doctors managed to save them.”

“Jesus.”

Diem shrugged. “I learned to hang my stuff up when I got home. I had a lot of pain in that ear for years. Anytime it got even remotely chilly, it ached. Still does sometimes. Dad used to flick it every time he walked by me and call me an ugly sonofabitch. A one-eared freak. So I don’t like people touching it. It’s… triggering.”

“I’ll respect your wishes, Diem. Thank you for telling me.”

His gaze met mine briefly, and the gratitude reflected in his stormy gray eyes was soul-deep.

“Do you want me to get off your lap?”

It took another ponderous second before Diem shook his head.

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