Page 108 of Under Your Scars
The corner of his mouth quirks into a soft smile. “I don’t want your pain to betolerable, I want it to be nonexistent. I wish I could take it away,” he whispers, as if he’s reminding himself that he’s the reason I’m in pain in the first place.
I can’t blame him for what Frank and Neil did to me, but I do place some of the blame on him for putting me in the middle of his war with them.
I trace the line of his arm with my eyes. His biceps bulge against the cuff of his t-shirt. A pinkish scar peeks out from under the fabric, from that first night in my apartment when he used fishing wire to stitch himself up. My eyes continue to follow the lines of his muscles until I focus on the scars and fresh cuts all over his forearms. My heart aches when I see them.
“I have a confession,” I whisper. His blue eyes fixate on me, his attention completely undivided. “I miss you. I don’t mean in the way that people miss someone they love when they’re apart. I miss you because I want to go back to that time when we were just two people falling in love. I miss when you were just Christian to me.”
“We can go back. We can be just two people in love.”
I shake my head. “No Christian, I don’t think we can. You’re a full package. I can’t love you without loving the Silencer. You’d think that would be an easy choice. When I was going to the police station to turn you in, I felt like I would have been doing the city a favor, but at the same time, it felt like I was betraying you. Does that make sense, in the most illogical way possible?”
Christian scoffs and smirks. “That, my angel, is called Stockholm Syndrome.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “I’m not a kidnapping victim.” I huff. “Well, I am, butyoudidn’t kidnap me.”
“Sometimes people develop feelings for their captors because it’s easier than fighting them.”
“But you’re not my captor,” I say, and then my eyes widen with realization. Heismy captor. I just never saw the chains because they were covered in diamonds. My gaze on him saddens, my chest aching. “Does that mean I don’t really love you?”
He shakes his head. “You love Christian Reeves.”
I love Christian Reeves. Right. Because he says they’re not the same person. But how can someone be two completely different people? How can one side of him be so perfect and the other side be so vicious?
He silently feeds me another strawberry. I close my eyes and rest my head on my arms, staying with him in a comfortable silence for a few minutes before he speaks again.
“Elena? Can I…can I wash your hair?” My first reaction is to shake my head, and I sink further into the bubbles away from him. “I promise I won’t touch you anywhere other than your head and neck.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I can’t.”
“You trust me, right?”
“Christian, you know this is different. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
He shuffles on his knees until he’s behind me, and I sink further into the water, my body tensing up and even under the cover of the bubbles, I use my arms to shield my breasts and in between my legs. From behind me, he leans over, his breath fanning over my neck right below my ear. “Trust me,” he whispers. “Close your eyes, Elena.”
“No.”
He gently removes the clip holding up my long strands of hair, and they tumble over my shoulders and land in the sudsy water.
“Trustme,” he repeats as tears start streaming down my face.
“Christian,please,” I beg. He hasn’t even touched me beyond unclipping my hair, and I’m trembling beneath the water. I feel like I’m drowning even though my head is safely above the bubbles.
“Trust me,” he repeats, over and over again, in that smoky baritone way that warms me straight into my bones. “Trust me.”
He dips his hands into the water next to my shoulder, using them to drip the water on top of my head, until each strand of my hair is sufficiently soaked. From the array of soaps on the side of the tub, he grabs a lavender scented shampoo, squeezing a large dollop of it into his palms. He shushes me, and I tremble when his fingers touch my scalp. My body tenses up even further, and I try to think about anything else. Something to keep me from freaking out. Something to keep me from jumping out of this tub and running through the house stark naked just to get away from him.
His fingertips rub gentle circles on my scalp, lathering the shampoo on my head. The longer he stays there, just rubbing small, soothing circles in my hair, the lines of my shoulders begin to relax. I’m still breathing heavily, and I’m all too aware of every millimeter of his fingertips on me, but I focus on taking deep, calming breaths. They come out shaky and labored. I wipe my chin where tears have gathered there, smearing citrusy-smelling water across the bottom of my face.
“I would never hurt you.”
My voice cracks. “I know.”
“Tell me why you’re crying.”
The tears flow faster. “Don’t you understand? I want you to hold me so badly, but I can’t stand the thought of you touching me at the same time.” I touch my forehead to my knees. Ugly, hiccupping sobs escape my throat.
He stops rubbing my scalp for a moment, finding a knot at the base of my neck where it curves into my shoulder, and he rubs the tension there. When he touches a particularly sore spot, I groan.
