Page 60 of Open Arms

Mason’s hand brushed against mine, tentative but supportive. He leaned forward slightly, his presence a silent anchor as my voice trembled with the tide of memories.

“The night everything changed,” I continued, “it was like any other. Until it wasn’t.” My heartbeat quickened at the recollection, each thud echoing the fear that had once consumed me entirely.

“Chlo,” Mason whispered, his voice a lifeline amidst the swell of emotions. “You don’t have to . . .”

“No, I need to,” I insisted, meeting his gaze firmly now. “I survived . . . when no one else did.”

He reached out, his fingers encircling mine withgentle certainty. “I’m here,” he said, his gray eyes reflecting a storm of his own—a tempest of empathy and concern.

“Thank you,” I breathed out, allowing myself to lean into the comfort of his touch, feeling the warmth of his hand seep into my cold apprehensions. “It feels like another lifetime now. But the fear . . . it followed me here.”

Mason nodded, his jaw set with a quiet resolve as he listened, his hand a steady pressure against mine. I found the courage to keep speaking, to let go of the ghosts that had haunted me for far too long.

“My father snapped that night. I don’t even know why or how. Just did. ‘Attempted family annihilation’ is what the police called it. Then the media. It all became a circus, and I was still trying to come to terms with losing my mom, losing my little brother and sisters, being chased down and attacked by the one man who should have been my protector.

“And what’s almost just as bad, is that the only other survivor, my older brother Jamie, he abandoned me after it all.”

Mason stirred, a wrathful look crossing his face. “What?”

“He was away at college when it happened. The police brought him to the hospital to see me, but he was in shock. We both were. And then the reporters outside . . . it was all so much. He went to stay with friends out of state. A few months later, I got a call. He was changing his name and disappearing. Didn’t want anything to do with any of it. It was too much for him, I guess.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was a hell of a trauma. But to abandon you? When you were the one attacked that night? When you witnessed it all?”

Mason was raging now, and I knew he felt the pain I’d felt. I knew then, just how much he cared. I held his hand, squeezing it.

“I know . . . I’ve talked about that a lot in therapy.”

“Fuck, Chloe. I’m so damn sorry you went through that. Words . . . they’re not enough.”

I shook my head. Of course they weren’t. Nothing was. But I appreciated his empathy all the same. It meant more than I could imagine.

I brushed a hand across my arm, feeling the ridge of scar tissue there, hidden beneath the sleeve of my shirt. “I’ve got . . . marks,” I murmured, my voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. “You’ve seen them.” My fingers trailed up to the edge of my hairline, hovering over the jagged line that marked my temple.

“Chloe . . .” Mason’s voice was a tender caress, his gaze never wavering from mine.

“Most of them are on my back, because I’d tripped and fell. He got me there before I could get away again.” I confessed, a shiver running through me as I remembered the searing pain, the blood. “They’re . . . reminders of that night. Of everything I lost.”

His hand, still clasping mine, gave a reassuring squeeze. “But they ain’t who you are, Chlo,” Mason said, the timbre of his voice deep and steady. “They’re just . . . echoes of the past.”

“Echoes that sometimes scream,” I admitted, biting down on my lower lip.

“Maybe so,” he agreed softly, leaning back, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that sent a different kind of shiver through me this time. “But what I see? That’s a woman who’s brave as hell. Someone who faced the worst and came out breathing. Fighting.”

“Doesn’t feel like bravery,” I said with a half-hearted chuckle, looking away from those penetrating gray eyes.

“Bravery ain’t about not being scared,” Mason replied, shifting closer until I could feel the warmth of him beside me. “It’s about facing life head-on, scars and all. And you, Chloe Beecham, you’re doing that every single day.”

“Even when I want to run?” My voice wobbled, revealing the doubt that lingered beneath my newfound veneer of courage.

“Especially then.” His other hand lifted, hesitating for only a second before his fingers gently traced the line of my jaw, urging me to face him again. “Because you’re not running anymore. You’re here, opening up to someone who wants nothing more than to be by your side.”

“Thank you, Mase,” I whispered, a tear slipping down my cheek, no longer able to hold back the tide of emotions his words unleashed within me. “But there’s something else,” I started, my voice barely above a whisper, betraying the unrest that danced like ripples across the water.

“Something else?” He tilted his head, concern etching deeper lines into his rugged face.

“I’ve moved around a bit. At first, trying to hide. I changed my name, too. But then, it became about finding a new home. Starting over somewhere I could put down roots, call my own. I thought I found that here. Safety. A new start away from my past. But I got a call at Sunshine Acres. It sounded like him . . . like my father.” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard against the fear rising in my throat.

“Sounded like him?”

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