Page 55 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Centering on his movements helps relieve some of the ache, some of the angst tormenting my body. But my body’s stubborn, not ready to give up the fight. I’m too weak to mount a defense.
After what feels like hours, the tears dry up, but the emotions don’t stop their assault. Beckett’s comfort seeps into me, fighting my battles I’m too worn out to tackle on my own.
Though I’m still naked, the blanket’s dried and warmed me up. Or maybe that’s the warmth wafting off Beckett.
From my position in his lap, I peer up at him. Worry lines outline his face, his expression a mask of concern. His fingers trail along the edges of my jaw, big hands cupping my face.
“We’re talking about it,” he growls. “All of it. The only choice you get is here or the living room. Nothing else is up for negotiation.”
His demands are so impossible to combat. As much as I don’t want to talk about it, arguing isn’t an option. But I can’t help but refute, “I need to get dressed. Dry my hair.”
He blows out a long-winded captured breath. “I’ll allow you ten minutes. Bed or the couch? Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee. In the living room. Will you start a fire?”
“Absolutely, Bundy.” He slips his mouth over mine. The kiss is chaste, a way of showing he cares.
As if I needed more evidence.
“If you’re not on the couch in ten minutes, I’m coming for you.”
“Right. I understand.” When he stands up, I notice his entire outfit is soaked. I point to his front and sheepishly add, “Sorry.” Except I’m not the one who pulled me from the bath soaking wet.
He glances down to assess it. Instead of addressing it, he stammers, “Ten minutes.” He stalks to his dresser, ripping open the drawer and wrenching clothes out. He disappears from sight, holing up in the bathroom.
I don’t dare think he won’t follow through on his “ten-minute” order, so I follow his lead and get dressed.
16
beckett
Her loud criestore through me. The harrowing sobs, the hallowed wails, the pain.
At first, I thought she was hurt. That someone was hurting her. It took me a minute or two of panic to find her in the bathroom, to realize what was happening. By that time, my heart was a mess, my pulse skyrocketed to the worst-case scenario.
But what truly wrecked me was her expression. The pain and sorrow etched on her face. The shame she wore like a mask, branded into every pore.
I didn’t think. I reacted.
When I couldn’t get her immediate attention—she was too lost in a different time—panic gripped me like a vise, a hold so strong, I didn’t think I could fight for her. It didn’t occur to me I’d be soaked when I reached out and lifted her from the water. I had one goal: to make her stop crying. Not because I couldn’t handle the tears and the noise, but because she couldn’t. She needed comfort, and I was the one to give it to her.
Even now, dressed in dry clothes, trying to process what the hell happened, making coffee and sugary snacks, I wouldn’t have reacted differently if I had stopped to think about my actions. The woman is going through something,and despite her propensity to not want to talk about it, that stops now. I can’t let her be alone with this. No matter how hard it is to talk about, she needs to get it out, to confront it.
Whateveritis.
I’m not sure how well I’ll do to help, but I’m here to listen, to lend all the support I can give her, to hear her out, to make things better.
Except that’s not always the case. I can’t “fix” everything. Not for myself, and not for the people around me. Especially if they don’t want help. What I know about Willa, she’s going to refuse the help as much as she can. But when she lets her guard down even one bit, that’s when I’ll pounce.
The bathroom door opens, and Willa emerges. Her eyes red and swollen hidden behind her glasses, her cheeks puffy. Exactly how long had she been crying? How much emotion was she trying to purge?
What the hell has this girl been through?
