Page 41 of Don't Say A Word

I study the dark ink on his arms. I see four stars, dotted into a cross. I’ve seen them before, out the square patch of window. I don’t want to think about the pain. I don’t want to think about who inflicted it. My hand falls over his skin, slick with water as I trace the lines of the stars on his shoulder, the pattern forming a diamond over and over, the perfect distraction from all the thoughts I don’t want to think.

His eyes are on me, but he doesn’t say a word. He just stands with me in his arms, water falling down our bodies. With the side of my head pressed to his chest, the sound of his heart echoes, slowing the beat of my own until it matches his. I close my eyes, concentrating on nothing but the gentle thud.

When he lowers my feet to the ground, I tighten my grip, wincing as pain slices through me once again. In his arms, it had numbed, but now it is back in force. Gently, he turns me, allowing the extent of my injuries to show. When he first touches my wounds, I let out a cry or a sob, covering my face with my hands.

His touch is gentle, washing away the blood. I brace myself against the wall, needing strength more than my own to keep standing.

The water stops with a clunk. He pats me dry. Even the threads of the towel hurt as they brush over my skin. And then he lifts me again, one arm hooked under my knees, carefully avoiding the welts on my thighs, the other cradling my back, unable to evade the broken flesh. The wounds are not deep, they will heal without scars, but the memory of his touch will forever be with me.

I shiver even though I’m not cold as he lowers me to the bed. The absence of him cuts me, and I reach out, needing to be close to him. Close to safety. To familiarity. To the only thing I can cling to. But he disappears back into the bathroom, wet footprints left in his wake.

I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone. I don’t want to close my eyes and see his face, his evil smile and depraved desire as his belt licked my skin. My throat throbs where his fingers dug into me. My flesh is on fire, hot and burning, stinging with flames of torment.

Through the opening of the bathroom door, I can see him peeling the singlet from his body. Both arms, both shoulders are covered in tattoos. Sleeves of art. They are all black. They snake over him, moving with the muscles that slide under his skin. His jeans are the next to be torn from him, left as a wet mess on the floor. After rubbing the towel over his body, his face and his head, he wraps it around his waist.

He still hasn’t said anything but when he walks back to me his eyes say more than words ever could. Pulling back the covers, he crawls into the bed and lies down on his side, his forehead pressed to mine, face to face. He doesn’t offer apologies or excuses. He knows they would be meaningless. Reaching out, he draws my hands away from where they are clutched to my chest and holds them between his, bringing them to his lips, pressing soft kisses over them.

There is something different in his touch. Something gentle. Something filled with remorse and longing. I shuffle closer, needing his warmth, and my body tenses with pain. He lowers our joined hands, giving me space to bend my head and press it to his chest. I need to feel the beat of his heart again. I need it to echo mine because my body is so cold inside, I don’t know if my heart is still beating. His knees bump against mine and thread between them. The towel is gone and his body radiates heat. I need that warmth. I crave it. If I could pull back his skin and climb inside, I would.

I’m not sure how long it is before my body stops trembling and my heart starts beating on its own. I tilt my head back, hesitantly looking at him. It’s the first time I’ve touched him. The first time he has touched me when I’ve longed for it. The grooves in his forehead are deep, etched with unease. Summoning my strength, I lift my hands and smooth them out. His eyes bore into mine, saying all the things words can’t. I press the lines of his forehead over and over, frustrated that I can’t remove the depth of them. Reaching up, he pulls my hands away, encasing them in his own again. He breathes deeply and his head inches across the pillow. His features blur with closeness and his lips press to mine, breathing warmth back into my body. He presses a kiss to where the skin is split. He presses another to the tightness of my cheekbone. Another to my nose.

I start to cry and he captures my tears with his tongue. Then his hand threads into my hair and tugs my head to his chest, allowing me to keep my tears. My cries turn to sobs, racking my body in pain again.

Ryker just holds me, his hand twisted in my hair, my head pressed to his chest, our legs tangled together in a mess of flesh and limbs.

I cry until there are no tears left.

I cry to exhaustion.

For a moment, when I wake, I am transported back to the knife of fear before Marcel stepped out of the shadows. My heart beats rapidly. Cold sweat coats my skin.

But then I feel him.

He is still here.

His hand is still cupped around the back of my head.

I’m still breathing into his chest.

I can still feel the steady thud of his heart.

Everything about this man is confusing. His softness—the way he touches me so gently, cradles me as though he’s scared I might break—is a contradiction to his sternness. Here, now, he isn’t the man who’s kept me locked away in this hellhole. It’s almost as though he abhors it.

I draw in a ragged breath. “Why?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer for a long while. I think he might not answer at all, and then words rumble in his chest so low they could almost be mistaken for a growl.

“Because I…” his voice falls away. “Because I have no choice.”

He didn’t need to ask what I meant. He already knew.

Why is he doing this?

Why has he locked me in a cell, imprisoned me?

And why is he showing me kindness now?

“No choice,” I repeat. “There is always a choice. No one can take that away from you.”

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