Page 63 of Confession
When we get home and park in the garage, I let go of him to get out. He gets out too, watching numbly as Sasha pulls up beside us with his car.
She gets out, hauling out his weapons rigs. She slings them over her shoulder. I can tell, in the way she stalls, that she wants to talk to him, but she sighs and walks off, leaving us alone.
I take Quinn’s hand. He walks with me through the garage then through the house and up the stairs to my room, where I close us in.
Like Sasha, I want to talk to him, but he’s not ready. I tug at the hem of his compression shirt, pushing it up until he raiseshis arms. I pull it over his head and toss it on the floor. I crouch to unlace his boots. He makes a sound of discomfort at my actions, but I ignore him.
Once I’ve got his boots and socks off, I straighten to get him out of his tactical pants and boxer briefs. He’s not aroused and neither am I.
“Get in the bed,” I tell him.
As he complies, pulling down the covers and sliding in, lying on his side with his back to me, I get undressed. I turn on one of the distant accent lights and turn off the main lights. Then I slide into the bed behind him. I hook my arms around him and tug him against me. I bury my face against the back of his neck and just hold on until his tremors fade.
Once he’s relaxed, I whisper, “Why did you think that was okay to do?”
“What?” he asks quietly.
“You scared me,” I tell him. “Do you understand how much you scared me tonight?”
He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t understand.
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that people care about you? And it’s not just me, you know.”
No answer.
“Youcare about people,” I point out.
“Yeah.”
“Well, they care about you too.”
He exhales a frustrated breath.
“I love you, Quinn.”
His chest rises and falls sharply.
I don’t know if it’s subconscious or what, but my hand moves to his forearm, lightly curling around the burn scars. When he pulls his arm away, I let go.
“Nobody should have done that to you.”
“He’s dead,” Quinn tells me like that’s all that matters.
I breathe against the back of his neck, deciding whether to ask. Then he volunteers, “I killed him.” Fuck, I was afraid of that. “He was going to kill her.”
“Your mother?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply, which is answer enough.
He’s silent for a long time. I want to him to continue, but this isn’t something I can ask him for. He’ll give it or he won’t.
I hope he does. I want to understand him, and while this part of his past might not have anything to do with tonight, it also has everything to do with tonight.
After a while, Quinn says, “He didn’t like what she’d cooked. Shit started. When I tried to stop him, he—well, that’s when I got burned. With the pan.”
“Jesus Christ,” I murmur as anger rolls through me. I shift against him, restless with it, frustrated that there’s nothing I can do.
Except listen.
