Page 33 of Dance for Me

Hands gentle, he worked the shorts down her lean, toned legs to her feet, sinking onto his haunches. “Grab onto my shoulders, little one. Use me to balance.”

Her knees buckled as he removed the material from around her second foot; Braun surged up, hooking his arm under her butt and anchoring her to his body. A fierce sense of protectiveness washed through him when she smushed her face into his chest and clung. “All this running away from me, little one. What the hell’s been going through your head?”

He yanked the blanket off the couch, shook it out one-handed, and bundled her into it where she stood. She keened quietly when he urged her back a step to tuck it around her front, then choked on another harsh sob when he scooped her up and stretched himself along the couch with her curled on top of him, propping his back against the arm for support.

Braun checked she was fully covered by the blanket, then settled in for the long haul. One arm curled over her waist. His free hand stroked wherever he could reach. He said nothing because he didn’t quite know where to start, and he wanted her to listen, to take in everything he needed to tell her.

They’d get through this.

He closed his eyes and focused on Bodie. It felt like an eternity since he’d last held her like this, and it felt just as right as the last time. Persuading her she belonged here with him—and her body evidently agreed with him.

Her sobs were no longer forceful enough to break ribs, dying off into vicious gulps of breath, and the shakes were calming into nasty little tremors. There wasn’t much for him to do but be there, providing a safe haven while she lost herself for the time being.

*

The terror of being hunted replayed in her head as she shivered and fought against the shackles of her tears. Turning one way, then another, dodging members of the club in her panic. Running with nowhere to go as though the hounds of hell were on her heels.

Jasper could pass as a hellhound.

Fuck, she’d been pumped up on Fall Out Boy, the drumbeat still pounding in her veins. Sure, she’d been tired, and it had cost her valuable energy to stand up, but she’d done it. When she’d seen him walk towards her, those eerie blue eyes lasered in on his prey, all her internal organs had shriveled up and died.

What had he said when he’d raised his hands?

“Time to come home, poppet. Denying who you are is making you miserable, and rejecting your Dominant is turning him into a miserable fucker.”

The Master may have hit the nail on the head, but he’d also sent her into a tailspin so sharp, she’d lost all sense of what was. And then there was Atticus, hand at the ready, and she’d been tempted to take it, to let herself be drawn into arms that would hold her tight. But they were the wrong arms.

The wrong man.

Braun had rescued her, taking her away from the hell she was fully aware he’d orchestrated. She didn’t give a shit if he’d organized the whole terrifying ordeal—it had taken her one night to realize she’d done the wrong thing in running from him that first night, and that she’d only compounded the issue by avoiding him the next.

The past month had been a nightmare.

How the hell was she supposed to sleep when her mind constantly second-guessed the decisions she’d made that night? Or eat, knowing she’d fucked up royally and had no feasible way of fixing the mess she’d made without sacrificing her pride?

Pride was something she’d held onto tightly, no matter who tried to pry it out of her hands. The night her mother chained her to the fence, naked and bloody, Bodie had clung to her pride, even when the site manager arrived and discovered her. She hadn’t begged, she hadn’t cried. Despite the cold eating into her bones, she’d politely asked him to please cut her down before anyone else saw her.

Being a nice man, he’d rushed to help her, offering to call the police and EMTs. That would’ve been a death sentence for them both, had she given in to his earnest attempts to sway her.

Her breath hitched, another wave of tears threatening to roll over the top of her if she wasn’t careful how far down memory lane she ventured. That was one of the most difficult memories to repress, but it wasn’t the worst of what was hidden away.

Braun’s hand gripped the nape of her neck, strong fingers massaging the fragile stem in reassurance. The power in his hands would make it easy for him to snap her neck in a heartbeat. If he’d been anything like her father, he probably would’ve done so by now—Abraham wasn’t renowned for his patience.

The knead of his fingers eased the crying headache brewing behind her pufferfish eyes, much to her relief. Her breathing was almost back to normal, although her nose was stuffy. She’d shoved herself through the wringer this time. Last time was bad enough.

“Back with me, little one?”

Little one. It was pathetic, wasn’t it, how much joy two words could bring? She’d thought she would never hear him say that to her again. That he could call her his little one after everything she’d done...some things were worth more than pride.

Bodie hadn’t wasted the time spent away from the club. The money she earned had gone toward rent and bills, and a new phone—a luxury she’d never had. Everything in her life was pretty much a hand-me-down; she wasn’t used to shiny and flawless.

Sitting on the floor of her still bare apartment, she’d spent long nights researching BDSM and what it meant. Tried to figure out what it meant to her. Made a long and complicated list of pros and cons, then measured it against Braun.

Compared a lonely life against one filled with him.

The Master won hands down, however she looked at it.

His heart beat steadily under her cheek, as dependable as the man it belonged to. He hadn’t given up on her, even when it appeared—no, when she had—given up on him.

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