“That’s true, but it’s not all of it. I wasn’t completely honest. I haven’t ...” She swallows, and her gaze swings back to me, and the bare pain in her eyes punches me square in the throat. “I haven’t told anyone this except for Zora. And she found out by accident.”
“Sweetheart, what?”
What the hell causes that kind of stark look? My limbs turn to leaden weights, but I push to my feet and circle the platters of food between us. My first instinct is to scoop her into my lap, hold her, cradle her against my chest, and shield her from whatever ghosts seem to be haunting her. But this isn’t about me. Like all of tonight, it’s about her.
“What do you need from me?” My voice is damn near a croak, the effort of holding back the fear and worry clawing at me almost a physical ache. My muscles fucking quake with the strain of it.
She tips her head back, brown eyes studying me. And maybe she sees I’m on the edge and takes pity on me. Or maybe she needs me beside her as much as I need to be there. Because she sweeps a hand over the spot next to her.
“Can you sit next to me? Let me lean on you?”
Anything.
I lower beside her and draw my knees up, then rest my arms on them. She scoots closer, pressing her shoulder against mine, and though I want more—like to haul her against me—I grant her exactly what she requested of me.
She doesn’t immediately speak, and I don’t rush her, although the protector in me roars tofix it. Whatever stole the joy of the evening from her—make that pain go away, andfix this.
“When I entered college, it was scary. Sixteen, still a child. And a sheltered one at that. Most sixteen-year-olds had experienced boyfriends, parties, football and basketball games—hell, friends. Some had experimented with alcohol and sex. Other than a couple of friends, I’d had none of that. While I can attribute some of that to my own shyness and being the youngest kid in all of my classes, my parents—especially my mom—had a good part to do with it. She might as well have wrapped me in a bubble. I understand she was afraid I would be taken advantage of because of my inexperience, but in turn, it was my inexperience that allowed me to be taken advantage of.”
The fear digs its talons into me. I don’t like the direction this is heading, and I draw in a deep, hopefully quiet breath.This is about her.I repeat the mantra, silently reminding the anger kindling in my gut.
“So yes, entering college was scary, but God, I was so excited too. Even though I still lived at home instead of at the dorms, I had a certain freedom missing until then. No teachers to report back to my parents. No bullying in the hallways. The campus was bigger, not so insular as high school. There were students from all over the country—hell, the world. And that’s what it felt like. I had finally entered the world for the first time. I even had friends. A very small group, but they were more than I’d ever had before. College had started off really great for me, even though the more independence I seemed to gain, the more my mom tried to tighten her hold on me. She didn’t allow me to go to mixersand would only approve university activities if Zora or Levi attended with me. She hated my friends and refused to let me date. If paranoia had a poster child, Monica Nelson would’ve had that endorsement.” She huffs out a low puff of sound that I think is supposed to pass for laughter. “That’s why when I fell for a football player, I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell anyone in my family because they wouldn’t approve, and I liked him. No.” She pauses, and she goes still, as stiff as a statue next to me. “I loved him.”
A sense of foreboding yawns wide in my chest. So big I could fit inside it. It doesn’t take a prophet to divine that Miriam’s aversion to athletes originated here, within the seeds of this story. I’d always wondered whose sins I was paying penance for—now I’m about to find out.
“His name was Robert Sampson. He wasn’t a starter on the team or even one of the stars. But I didn’t care. What started as me tutoring him in Advanced Algebra turned into more, and he liked me. He didn’t care that I was a seventeen-year-old sophomore or what some people considered an oddity. For the first time, a boy—a young man—showed genuine interest in me other than to tease me or use me for grades. When we spent time together, he listened to me, showered me with attention and affection. And I fell. Hard. I gave him my virginity.”
She goes quiet, and my breath stutters and stalls in my lungs. Since she can’t see me, I close my eyes, bracing against the blazing tide of fury that batters me. Because I know what’s coming. Maybe not the details, but the result? Oh, I know. The result is her pain. Her rejection.
“The couple of days after we had sex—or made love, because that’s what I’d believed we’d done—I didn’t hear from him. But I chalked it up to his busy schedule. Then, worried about him, I headed over to the football house to check on him. The door to his room had been cracked, and I almost knocked when I realized he wasn’t alone. Several of his teammates were with him, and I heard my name. He was telling them about ‘smashing the freaky geek’ and that it was time for them to pay up. Apparently, I had been a bet for him to get in with the morepopular players. While I’d been giving him my heart and body, I’d only been a prank to impress his asshole buddies.”
“Sweetheart,” I rasp.
Pain and rage. That’s what I’ve become, and even though it’s ten years later, I want to hunt down this motherfucker who would take advantage of a child.A fucking child.Because that’s what she’d been, if not by law—and just barely by law, as seventeen is the age of consent in Colorado—then definitely in experience, in mentality.
The name Robert Sampson is stamped on my brain with a mental cow brand. I’ll never forget it. Never forget the name of the person who stole her innocence. And I’m not referring to her virginity. I’m talking about her trust in people. Her belief in love. Her faith in the goodness of people.
The guilt of that lies on his shoulders.
“I hated him. Hated his friends. They made me feel so ... small. But as I left that football house, I promised myself no one would ever do that to me again. Have that kind of power over me again.” She shook her head. “But my virginity and my heart hadn’t been enough for him. He wanted my pride too. Looking back, I think something in him needed to break me, to drag me to the ground. Because he called me later that night and left a message inviting me to a party the football players planned on throwing after the game that Friday. That probably wasn’t the only thing on their agenda. Humiliating me was too.”
She straightens, and when she looks at me, the shadows of pain linger in her brown eyes, but a smirk rides her face. My fingers itch to trace it even as a cautious pleasure trips through me at the sight of it.
“But unfortunately a stink bomb going off right in the football house ruined their party plans. Also had the house—and its tenants—smelling like shit for weeks. Or so I’m told.”
I stare at her. Then snicker.
“That’s fucking savage.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her smirk deepens but then fades. “I guess I should thank Robert and those other football players. After that, I stopped giving a damn what people thought. Stopped letting people walk over me, make decisions for me. I stopped hiding in plain sight. That’s when people started calling me a little crazy, loose. Didn’t bother me. All that meant I was finally living my life out loud and by my own rules.”
“You don’t owe those assholes a thing, and for damn sure you shouldn’t be thanking them for anything.” I plant a hand near her hip and lean over her, lowering my face to hers. This close, I can taste the oyster sauce and wine on her breath, and I want to lick it off. “No, I take it back. You want to be grateful to them? Be grateful that they revealed the strength that always existed beneath. Be thankful that their pettiness, immaturity, and just shittiness of character only highlighted the integrity and beauty of yours because you would never think of treating another person that way. Be grateful that they showed you that you could be bent but not broken.”
It makes sense now. The theme of empowerment, consent, and choice that runs through Ravaged Lands. How Sarafina defends other people, but she’s also her own champion. It all makes such heartbreaking and awe-inspiring sense.
I lift a hand to her face, letting it hover there, and only when she captures my wrist and presses my palm to her cheek do I cradle it. And my whole body sighs.
“You don’t have to tell me why you joined BURNED,” I murmur, stroking my thumb underneath the full curve of her bottom lip. “I get it. You believe in the mission of the company. And while you’re there, you want to give someone what you didn’t receive. The gentleness, the carefulness, the honesty.”
