Page 32 of The Shadows We Keep

Her body shivers at the cool metal, and goosebumps rise on her skin. The flat of my blade makes its way to her inner thigh when I notice the marks, faded with age, but raised nevertheless. My blood boils instantly at the possibility that someone made these marks in an area that’s only exposed in intimate situations.

The tip of my knife traces the oblong shapes, but I don’t press down hard enough to draw blood—even though I want to. I want to mark them as my own, take away whatever memory she holds when she looks at them, replacing those thoughts with what’s about to come—her.

I drop a kiss to one side and then the other, realizing it’s not just her right side, but both. The marks are in the crease between her thigh and pussy, well-hidden–even in a bikini.

“What are these?” I whisper against her skin. Licking the ridges and watching her breathing pick up. Her toned thighs tighten. I look up into her heated gaze. She’s so far gone into bliss she doesn’t answer me.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, little one. I thought we were past that.”

Her body stiffens at my tone, not her typical response to my demands.

Her body retreats. She catches me off guard and pushes off the stool, moving past me in a blur. Her feet pound against the floor like she’s running a marathon. I stalk after her. If she thinks I’m letting this go, she’s got another thing coming.

I fling the bedroom door open. It crashes loudly against the wall. Puffs of drywall flitter to the floor in its wake. My eyes scan the room, but nothing moves; she’s nowhere in my sights. The slam of the ensuite around the corner gives her away.

I pound on the wood. “Keira, open the damn door.”

I don’t get an answer, instead the sound of water cascading against the stone starts. My pounding ceases. It’s no use. I reach up, tracing my fingers along the trim of the bathroom door until they meet thin metal.

I shove the skeleton key into the lock and twist. It clicks out of place and the knob turns with ease. I push the door open, expecting to see a wet naked Keira in the shower. Instead, she’s slumped in the corner, knees pulled to her chest, head resting against them. Her eyes bore straight in my direction.

Tears flow freely, her eyes rimmed red, matching her cheeks. But her gaze doesn’t meet mine. It looks right through me. Not into the bedroom, but she’s somewhere else completely. My anger melts into concern as I approach her spooked form.

I drop to my ass in front of her, separating my legs as far as they’ll go to pull her into me. She doesn’t move, but she doesn’t resist. I pull her head against my chest, running a hand against her mess of hair.

“Come back to me,” I whisper to her and drop a kiss against her temple.

Her body trembles, but I tighten my grip against her skin. It’s then I realize she’s practically naked. I lean to the left and snag the plush white towel hanging from the warming wrack. Wrapping it around her shoulders, I pull it closed at her chest. Her face is still downcast, ignoring everything happening.

“Keira.” I’m pleading with her to look at me. “Tell me.” I tighten my tone back to the demanding man she’s used to surrendering to.

The shaking calms, but a slight tremor continues to pulse between us. Her eyes sweep up from the ground, finally landing on my own, I lean forward and capture her lips. Trying my best to coax her back to life; back to me.

“It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it,” she murmurs.

“Let me decide what I should be worried about.” I try to lighten my voice, but based on her reaction, I don’t succeed.

“Men, always sticking their noses where it doesn’t belong,” she mutters under her breath. “Why can’t you all just ignore them?”

Now it’s my turn to stiffen. It’s a slap in the face when she references her past relations while we’re tangled together in each other’s arms. I’m in denial that there was anyone before me, and I plan on making damn sure there’s no one after.

“I’m not other men,” I declare. “Tell me what happened, little one, and put my worries to bed.”

Her head shakes against my chest.

Why won’t she just tell me?

Nothing that comes out of her mouth could be worse than the horrific images bombarding my imagination.

“Foster care is no joke,” she admits.

My arms automatically tighten around her. The millimeters separating us disappear now that she’s on my lap, straddling me. I knew the reality of foster care was a possibility for her when I read the article about her mom, but hearing it fall from her lips tears through my soul.

I say nothing, waiting for the silence to break when she continues, “I was only eight….” She pauses and shifts, dropping her chin. Her red-rimmed honeyed gaze is hypnotic. I’m drawn to her, like an idiot moth to a flame. Desperate to hear the rest, so I hang on to every word. “I was only eight when I watched my mom die. She stepped in front of a blaze of bullets when we were leaving a diner near here.”

I know all of this, but there’s something different about hearing it from her perspective and not from some rando in a basement that’s got a hard on for tragedy. My hand rubs up and down her back, the fabric of the towel soft, but her skin is smoother. I wish there wasn’t a barrier.

“It was always just me and my mom. I never knew my dad. I never got the chance to really ask her, since she’d always brush off my questions when I tried. As I got older, I wondered if I had grandparents or aunts and uncles, but she mentioned no one. We never spent time with other people. I can’t even remember now if she had boyfriends or friends.” Her shoulders heave as she releases a sigh.

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