Page 49 of Hearts Held
I see the expression in his face, even though he tries to remain as icy as possible. His handsome, stark features try to exude malice, but I can see what’s hidden beneathhis irises. The compassion held within his eyes, reaching out to me.
He continues his interrogation. “He wastoo tiredto notice the flames engulfing your home, too tired to recognize he was being burned alive? You killed him, didn’t you?” He raises an eyebrow in question. “You don’t run from our business. You don’t cower in fear at our dealings. You’re like us, aren’t you, dove?”
Dove—I still don’t understand his nickname for me, its meaning, but a small pang of terror flickers inside me at his question.Am I like them?
I’ve always been a bit “off”—certain things don’t faze me the way they do others.
Like death and destruction.
When I speak of the war and what I saw, others are appalled, so I ceased sharing my stories when people asked. They would only end up upset by the graphic details.
An unfamiliar feeling begins to blossom inside my chest: a small dose of courage, as I felt him re-grip the strands of my hair ever so delectably.
I stare at his hardened amber eyes and confess, “I had to kill him, before hekilled me.”
We stare at one another. Our breaths hold as silence swarms us. Something unspoken is shared as he loosens the grip on my hair but does not let go. I stay lying flat on the massage table, hands clenching the bench as I prop myself up on my forearms. A single traitorous tear slips down my cheek as I continue, “You saw my back. Those are not all from the war. You experienced the real war like I did, and you know which scars are from shrapnel and which ones are from the knife of a lover.”
My brows begin to furrow at the memories, but I keep my courage and fight on, staring him straight in the eyes with ferocity. Commanding myself to tell him my story—the story no one else knows.
“You see theHburned into my skin, like on a broodmare? That’s all I was to him.Property. A thing he could use and abuse. That night I tried my damnedest to work late so I could come home to a sleeping drunk, but instead I came home to a thrashing demon.” The memory of the night flashes in my head. My mind wants to protectively block it out and cease my admission, but I press on, choking on my words. “I decided that he had hurt me for the last time that night. I refused to let him berate me, rape me, hit me and spit on me. So, when hefinished overpowering me and choking me, I…” I trail off, my eyesight beginning to haze at the stress and the rush of past emotions clouding my mind, but I fight to finish what he started.
“You what?” he mutters, expression softening as his grip on my hair changes from clutching my scalp to holding my head. I feel his hand slide down the nape of my neck, his thumb slowly caressing my jawline.
“I took the same fire iron he branded me with and struck him multiple times in the head. I bathed him in his beloved alcohol. Then I returned to the hospital and acted like I was working the rest of the night. After gathering some small items, I turned back for the last time and let the fucker burn. Everything that tried to kill my spirit died in those flames.” My voice begins to shake at the end of my retelling. The memory causes a rush of pain to my skull as the stress brings on a tension headache, but I try to breathe through the pain. I try to keep my gaze on him, challenging and ready for whatever judgment he will deliver.
Maybe it would be my last day, but as I stare at him, nostrils flaring as I try to keep my composure, I see something change within him. Something I can’t quitegrasp, but yes, something has changed. He tilts my head within his soft grasp, assessing me, and states, “You did what you had to, to survive.” Then he leans in close and feathers his lips upon mine. My mouth welcomes him, leaning into his touch, his smell, his spirit. I open for him as he presses his tongue into me. A low moan comes from his throat.
I only shudder at the pure pleasure that I derive from his touch. The icy atmosphere melts as our bodies radiate with illicit heat.
Chapter 13: Everett
Power Over Me, Dermot Kennedy
The thudding of fists assaulting heavy bags resonates across the vaulted ceiling of the boxing gym.
Each time my fist collides with the stitched leather bag, I think ofher.
Her soft lips.
Thud, thud.
Her beautiful, fiery gaze, alight with feelings I knowIstoked within her.
Thud, thud.
The way she opened for me.
Thud, thud.
Her bodycallingfor me to set itfree.
Thud, thud.
Ineed more.
Various scenarios are playing through my mind, of marching to her townhome and ravaging her body. Providingeverythingit needs.
“Mate, I think you’re gonna kill ’em if ya don’t stop. Then we really won’t know what happened to the shipments.” Marcus’s voice trails into my ear, interrupting my dark thoughts.
