Page 150 of Born for Lace

I imagine he snarled and bit back agony in those moments when they cut and tormented him.

When he forced me to shoot him with the taser, he mentioned something about my scent and mind games—I can only imagine what that means…

Don’t imagine it.

Oh, how I want to hold him, to remind him that he is safe now, that we are building a future together.

Through the window, he straightens, glaring at the wall he is building, scrutinising each stone as if searching for something beyond its physical form.

Then our eyes meet.

Locking in a moment.

I mouth, "Brute."

And he sighs, mouthing, "Flower."

There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—gratitude that makes my heart squeeze. Like he is silently saying thank you for waiting or understanding or maybe it is saying nothing at all. Maybe there is no flicker, only my need for hope.

I smile softly, letting him know that I am here, ready to stand alongside him.

Silent, like he needs.

I wince when his child kicks me, reminding me what we made, what our love made.

He is trying, each day, a small step forward—a stone laid down, another stone added to the growing foundation of our future. This is his way of telling me that we are no longer pretending.

I smile at that.

I stroll through the farmhouse, the floorboards shiny from a recent clean and the walls and trimmings dusted.

Spero drools along my shoulder and chest. His teeth are poking through, so he is grabby and fussy.

Scooping up Spero’s fluffy bear, I hand it to him, and he bites down on the ear, gnawing and humming around the fabric.

I sit him down on the floor in our room and walk to the mirror. Gazing at my reflection, I brush my fingers over the healing bruises on my throat.

Soon, they will be gone.

A tear glides down my cheek.

I swallow. Last time we were here, I created a pretty picture in my mind—a romantic, old-world picture of us, happy and raising our babies—but this… I lift my chin and drop my hand from my neck.

Thiswill change nothing.

Am I afraid of him?

Deep down, I know that I should be, but the beating organ in my chest won’t allow me to dwell on it.

I love him.

But it’s more than that. When I look at him, my body comes alive, and when he is gone, I feel everything wilting.

And I’m notjusta Common girl, either. I am—was—a Lace Girl. My Trade is a mental health initiative, one that I once believed in. In many ways, I still do.

While it is far from perfect, it holds an air of fact. Dopamine is released when we have sex and hold another. I know it’s true now. Having felt it myself. I am never more settled, hopeful, and weightless than when I am smothered in his thick arms of protection.

Can I offer him the same?To accompany, relieve, and soothe my man in his time of despair.

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