Page 109 of Truck Stop Tempest

I’d reached my breaking point. “No. Goddamn, Tuuli. No.” I pushed away from her, my chair slamming against the wall behind me.

“Why did you stop, Tito?”

“Fuck!” I yelled, digging my palms into my temples. “I’m tired. Tired of it all. The voices in my head, the ghosts, the goddamn shame.” Moisture rolled down my face. I let it fall, not ready to acknowledge my weakness. “The rage. The anger. I don’t want it anymore.”

Finally, she leaned back, granting a reprieve. Silence hung between us, gritty and chafing, the only sound, our heavy breaths—mine, wet and burdened, and hers, slow and controlled.

“I have a confession to make.” She rested one elbow on the armrest, planting her chin in her palm.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Why was my voice so goddamn raw?

“When I heard that Jeremy had been murdered, I was happy. I was so relieved that, for a brief moment, I wanted to laugh and dance around the apartment. How messed up is that? What kind of monster does that make me?” Her gaze dropped to the floor and I hoped to God it wasn’t in shame.

I cleared the grit from my throat. “It makes you human.”

Another long silence.

“I’m sorry about the other day in the break room.”

She nodded, lifting her eyes to mine. “I know. Me, too.”

“Finding that girl…” I pointed to the screen. The security feed from the kitchen showed the twelve-year-old we’d found in the cabin where Erik was supposed to be hiding. The child was currently baking chocolate chip cookies with Tucker’s mother. “It took me to a dark place. Weighed me down with anger, and guilt, and pent-up energy, and the only thing I could think about was getting to you. I knew you’d wash the filth away.”

“Tito,” she sighed, rising from her seat and stepping between my knees.

“I get it now. I understand why you go to church.” I curled my arms around her small waist, hugging her close, burying my face in her chest. “You’re my church, Bunny.”

“No.” She leaned back and cupped my jaw. “Don’t say that. I’m just a girl, every bit as broken as the boy she loves.”

That word again. Love.

I love you, son.

I fought a shiver and choked on the rising bile. Fuck. If anyone deserved those words, it was my girl.

Someday, I would give them to her. Someday, I would be strong enough.

“Tell me I haven’t lost you. Tell me you can live with my sins.”

Tilting my face upward, she stroked her thumbs under my wet eyes. “I told you before; I know who you are now. That’s what matters. Just please don’t lie to me. Don’t hide things. I need the truth. I need you to understand that I’m strong enough to deal with whatever life throws at us. Whatever comes our way, we’ll work through it, okay?”

I nodded, pulling her down for a kiss. Expressing through touch what I couldn’t give with words and trusting that she understood exactly how much I loved her.

Tito loved me. Not a doubt in my mind. He couldn’t form those three simple syllables, but what were words, anyway? Sounds strung together, an archaic form of communication. Words couldn’t be trusted. Words were too easily manipulated, practiced, weapons wielded, too often spewed with little thought.

Tito loved me. I knew because although he wasn’t able to verbalize, I saw the truth in his eyes, the way they changed when they fell on me—softened, but sharpened, piercing and curious, and brimming with want.

Oddly, after his confession of murder, when I should have been scared, I couldn’t help but feel closer to him. Safer by his side.

Sure, my morbid sense of comfort was likely because of my upbringing. The violence, the threats, the manipulation. The abuse. I’d been surrounded by dangerous men, deadly men. Men who fed off my fear, men who wielded their self-imposed power like a judge’s gavel.

But my Grim? Even at his scariest, he held me at his side, never at his feet. He imposed his power only to shield me, never to control. He used his strength only to lift me high, never to beat me down.

I knew, without a doubt, that Tito Moretti, my Grim, loved me. Rare, unconditional, and undeniable love. The kind of love you risked deep-rooted morals to hold close, knowing that with time and heartache, trials and adventures, extreme highs and vicious lows, only grew stronger and more precious.

Walking away would never be an option, no matter his sins.

He leaned back, hands clasped behind his neck, his beautiful face on full display, contemplative scowl deepening his worry wrinkles. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

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