Page 85 of Protector

Weak.

I’d thought he could be different this time.

Thought we could be different.

There was always going to be a chasm between us, though. Jamie had told me he couldn’t be gentle with me; had insisted that he wasn’t the man I needed. Yet, I’d stupidly convinced myself that I would make it work because I didn’t believe that anyone would ever love me like he did.

“Hit. Or. Stay?” He questioned as he pulled his hand back, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Hit.”

That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Pummeling a skull-shaped hole into my heart?

He dropped the card with another puff on the cigar. “Six. Brings you up to nineteen.”

Turning his second card over, he added, “And four makes eight for the dealer.” He dealt a third card and exclaimed, “An ace makes nineteen, princess. Push.”

I ignored his smile. The bond that had connected us for seventeen years was stretched taut, ready to snap at any second.

“Why are you doing this?”

Jamie dropped his chin to his chest, blinking rapidly, before looking back up at me. It was then that I saw the tears. “Who’s in control here?” He asked gruffly before clearing his throat.

“Just tell me why you’re doing this to me. Please.”

“Let’s go again.”

“No.” The chair legs squeaked loudly against the floor as I moved back. “I thought you cared… thought you loved me enough to never—I’m leaving. Don’t call me—”

His hand latched onto my arm, tugging me back toward the table and the edges of my vision swam in black.

It was happening again.

Except, this time, it’d be worse, because it was him.

“Where are you right now?” Jamie asked, keeping me from slipping into unconsciousness. “What do you see?”

“I—can’t…”

He dropped the cigar into the ashtray and moved around the table toward me. “You can. Who’s in charge?”

“You are, don’t you see that?” I roared, my face crumpling in anguish. “You’re breaking me apart, just like they did.”

“What’d I say on the porch? Hmm? You remember me sayin’ I didn’t want to do this? What do you think I meant?”

I swiped a hand over my damp face. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to play this game anymore. I want to go home.”

“You are home.” He released my arm and lowered himself to his knees. “I’m tryin’ to help you the only other way I know how. Close your eyes.”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“C’mon, Celia. Do you trust me?”

Against my better judgment, I did as he asked, gulping back another sob.

“What do you smell?” It was apparent he was waving the cigar in front of my face, and I mashed the back of my hand to my lips, fighting the urge to vomit.

“I smell… him.”

---