Page 67 of Beautifully Wounded

“Angel. When I ask you a question, you answer me.”

“I…” My cheeks flare to life, and he pulls back a little to study my face.

“Are you afraid of the way you’re feeling?” he asks again, and I nod.

He considers that for a moment, before putting a little more space between us and reaching up to tangle his fingers in my ponytail.

“Do you feel achy? Hot? Sensitive…” he leans closer, “between your legs.”

All I can do is whimper again.

“Why are you scared of that feeling?” This time he tugs on my hair tie, loosening my ponytail.

“I don’t want to say,” I rush out, studying his gaze, which is focused on my hair as his fingers mess my styling up.

“You’ve felt that way before, right?” he asks, ignoring the fact I said I didn’t want to say.

“Yes.” I breathe, and he nods, his dark gaze locking with mine.

“When was the lasttime you felt like that?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

“Why?” he asks, his expression neutral, telling me he won’t be angry if I want to end the conversation now.

“Because it’s weird. I don’t know you. And you’re like old.”

He chuckles. “How fucking old do you think I am?”

I shrug. “Like, forty.”

His head tips back as a laugh leaps from his mouth, his deep rumble sending my lips north.

"What?" I ask as he continues to laugh. "Are you older than that?"

"No." He grips his middle, his smile so wide that I can see the flash of his white teeth past his beard. “Fuck, maybe I should look into getting Botox if I look forty.”

My shoulders sag. “I’m sorry. I just really don’t know many people that aren’t either my age or my parents’ ages. And I never knew the real ages of the teachers at school. I don’t really have anything to compare it to.”

Slowly, he nods, a grin still tugging at his lips. “You remember the big guy that bailed you up the other night when you left my room when you shouldn’t have?”

Even though I roll my eyes, I still nod.

“Well, that was Fryer. For reference, he’s forty-two.” Then he jabs his thumb to his chest. “I am thirty-three.”

“Oh,” I say, a little stunned. Thirty-three isn’t that old… right?

I mean, yeah, I’m still in my teens, so the age difference between us is big, but not parental big. Not unless he was a father at fifteen.

“So now that we’ve established I’m notthatold, is this conversation still weird?”

I shrug. “Kinda. I’m not used to talking to… well, anyone, about stuff.”

“That’s because you were in a place where you couldn’t trust anyone. I hope you’ll eventually learn to trust me.”

I don’t know why I want his words to come true so badly. I’ll be gone soon, and this man will be nothing but a memory of the time I got kidnapped.

I nod, because I don’t know what else to do, and Ringo sighs.

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