Page 139 of Can You Take It?

It isn’t until someone pulls us back, shakes us awake, that we realize just how close we were to destruction. We don’t see the danger until it’s too late, until the hand on our arm reminds us there’s still a way out. Just as the fire threatens to take me, I feel the grip on my wrist. It yanks me away, breaking the spell.

I open my eyes, snapping back to reality, and I find Richard staring at me. I glance to the side and find the candle I'd litearlier. I don’t even know how it’s still burning after all this time. Richard pauses, his fingers stopping right on my clit, and I instantly regret getting distracted. He follows my gaze, his eyes locking onto the candle.

“Did that feel better?”

I almost laugh, but it comes out more like a shaky breath. I reach up, bringing my hand to his cheek, and he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans into it, letting me trace the curve of his jaw. He just watches me, and it’s like he’s looking right through all my bullshit. He knows everything now, everything about the scars I’ve tried to hide, about the past I’ve kept buried. He knows the darkness and the damage, all the twisted shit I’ve done to cope. But there’s one thing he doesn’t know.

“How do you find the strength to keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” He tilts his head slightly.

“Like you’re in love.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Because I am.”

“What makes you think I won’t hurt you again?”

It’s the most honest I’ve been with him in a long time.

“Oh, I know you will,” he says, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand, tracing the line where the candle’s heat kissed my skin. “But that’s the thrill, isn’t it? Knowing that you can destroy me, and that I’d let you.”

His thumb keeps brushing over my skin, and I feel every gentle stroke like a taunt, a reminder that he’s not backing down. “Just like I know you’d let me heal you.”

My hand drops from his cheek, and I frown.Heal me?He’s got it all wrong. I turn my head to the side, trying to make sense of what the fuck he’s talking about, but my eyes catch on him picking up the candle. The flame casts shadows across his face, and my breath catches in my throat. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the candle. It’s like he’s in another world, and I can feel the panic rising in my chest. The memories slam into me, taking me back to when I was ten, to the nights I’d cry out, begging for it to stop. I was never scared of fire before—not until I knew the source of the pain it could bring.

I try to pull away, but he’s too quick. In a heartbeat he’s pinning me down. His hand is wrapped around my wrist again, holding me in place as he towers over me. “Let me go,” I whisper. I can’t do this. Not with him.

“Why?” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, the flame still flickering dangerously close. “You think I’d hurt you?”

“Yes,” I breathe out. It’s not just a yes; it’s an admission of fear I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years. I try to yank my wrist free, but his grip tightens. The way he’s looking at me—fuck, it’s like he’s daring me to face it.

“I’m not him,” he says firmly. “But I need you to understand something. If you run, if you keep pushing me away, I’m going to keep coming back. Because I don’t give up that easy.”

“You’re scaring me,” I admit.

“Good,” he whispers. “Maybe you should be scared. Because I’m not like the others. I won’t let you hide behind your walls. I’m going to pull you out, kicking and screaming if I have to.”

He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. I feel his lips peppering kisses along the length of my neck, and despite every fucking alarm bell ringing in my head, I arch into him. My body betrays me, pressing closer, craving his touch like a drug.

He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. And then, without a word, he tilts the candle. The wax drips onto my arm, right over one of the old burn scars, and I scream out. He dips his pinky into the hot wax, scooping a small drop. His eyes never leave mine as he starts tracing something on top of thestill-warm wax, moving his finger slowly and carefully. The pain spreads, but there’s something about the way he’s doing it, the gentle focus in his eyes, that makes it hurt a little less.

When I finally manage crane my neck to see what he’s doing, my breath catches in my throat. It looks like he’s trying to draw a butterfly over the wax. It’s messy, unsteady, doesn’t even resemble a proper butterfly—just two uneven wings and a wavy line in the middle. But it’s beautiful in its own imperfect way, the way it covers part of my tattoo but leaves the scar untouched, like he’s acknowledging both without trying to hide either.

“How old were you?” he murmurs against my skin, his lips grazing my ear as he speaks.

“Ten,” I gasp.

His eyes darken with something unreadable, and he reaches up, pressing a kiss to my cheek like he’s trying to kiss away the years of pain. And then, just as I start to feel the comfort of his touch, he tips the candle again. More wax splashes onto another scar, and I scream, but he swallows it with a rough kiss. I’m panting, caught between the need to pull away and the need to press closer, when I feel his fingertip on the wax. Slowly he starts tracing another shape, dragging his finger in small, uneven loops. My skin tingles with every tiny stroke of his finger.

I manage to tilt my head down, trying to see what he’s doing. More butterflies. He’s drawing more fucking butterflies over my scars. They’re just as messy as the first, just as imperfect, but I can feel the intent behind them. His fingertip dips and swirls, and it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark of something new on top of all the old pain.

“Why?” I whisper, barely able to get the word out. “Why butterflies?”

His finger pauses for a second, then continues its slow, careful path. “Because they’re fragile, beautiful, and they’ve been through hell to get here. Just like you.”

“You’re making it hurt less,” I choke out.

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