My head dips into the curve of his neck and I close my eyes, thinking about the blood all over my dress. Erik's and mine. I feel disgusting. Dirty. The need to shower becomes more important than that of drawing in air.
A hand lightly grips my shoulder, strong and slightly curled—the hand of a boxer. "You have my word, Cassidy Slater. Someone will pay for what happened tonight.No oneis above my family."
Wish upon a star
As I sitin the gallery's kitchen, Max wraps my forearm up with a bandage from the first-aid box. The gash is deep; it'll need stitches. But I don't care about the wound in my arm. It's the distance Max is putting between us that hurts more than a thousand pieces of glass.
He's right beside me and yet so far away. His eyes are a tunnel of darkness with no light at the end. I'm not sure he has actually looked at me yet. Like, has really looked into my eyes since before I'd shot Erik.
After I'm patched up, he leads me to the rear loading bay, where Carter sits behind the wheel of a black limousine.
We drive away from the gallery. Away from that whole nightmare. The car is dark and silent. Too silent.
Staring down at my bloody dress, I begin to whimper. "Get it off me." Desperation controls my movements as I scratch at the dress. At the seams. At the zipper. "Get it off!"
Max is immediately kneeling in front of me, helping me shed that revolting layer. Once I'm sitting in myunderwear, he slides back onto the black leather seats, pulls me to straddle his lap, and buries his face in my knotted hair.
With shaky arms I embrace him. I finally feel a wave of sorrow submerge me.
Drag me down.
Sink me.
Max must feel me trembling because his thick, strong arms tighten around my waist. His breathing turns jagged and heavy, weighed down by emotion. I rub my face against his shoulder. My eyes well, the sting of tears biting at the heels of my anger towards Erik. They fall. Down my lips. Down my chin. And now I'm sobbing violently into the curve of his neck.
Max holds me close. One hand moves up to cup the back of my head, fingers brushing my hair. The other bands my waist, pressing me to his warm hard torso. Our heaving chests beat together in a collective erratic tempo.
He leans into my ear and whispers, "If you were me, what would you do to makeyoufeel better?”
"My mum sings to me."
"What song? Sing it for me."
My breaths wobble as I begin to sing. "Someday I'll wish upon a star." Suddenly frozen, Max seems to have almost stopped breathing. I know he doesn't understand the love of a mother. A mother singing to her child—the whole concept must be completely foreign.
As I continue to sing, my voice breaks and everything in this car is swallowed up by my grief.
His words
Max hada change of clothes in the trunk of the limo, so I wore his oversized shirt into the hospital.
They almost didn't let him stay with me. When they saw the black eye and bruises, they immediately thought he'd done it. That I was a victim of domestic violence. The way he held my elbow and scowled at everyone like a dog being backed into a corner didn't help. But he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
We told them I'd been in a car crash, but the finger marks on my thighs and breasts exposed that lie. Eventually I told them that I was attacked. Almost raped, but that I'd fought him off. They sutured my arm, took a blood test, and put a cannula into my hand to administer fluids. Apparently, I was severely dehydrated.
Now all the tests are done, and Max and I are finally alone in my hospital room. I've barely been able to look at him; it's an effort at the best of times, he's so tall. But tonight, he's hard. Stone.
We move into the bathroom and I keep my eyesdowncast. Max turns the shower on hot. Steam fills the white clinical room. There is a rail for safety in the large shower bay. It's big enough to get a wheelchair in; I suppose that's the point. Max kneels in front of me to slide my knickers down and I grip his shoulders, stepping out of them. I feel smaller than normal. Like I've somehow shrunk.
After rising to his feet, he begins to underdress himself. Clothes drop to the ground, reminding me of our first intimate time. Floors always look better when Max Butcher's clothes are all over them. I look up at him. The sight of his powerful, muscular body brings me a new kind of comfort. I know how strong he is. How fiercely he'll protect me as long as I'm by his side. A place I don't plan on leaving.
His penis is erect, thick, straight, and solid, and knocking at his navel. I want him. Want him to take away the feeling of another man's fingers on me. Touch inside me. I'm his. All my parts. The ones that are tangible and all the invisible, contradictory pieces that make up me.
They are all his.
We step into the shower together and I rest my cheek on his chest as he begins to wash my back and arms. Our naked bodies touch. That beautiful long ridge is squashed between my stomach and his hips. His fingers move around my body with gentle possessiveness, lathering me with soap and water. The hot water has brought a pink glow to my skin, especially around the mound of my breasts. Max probably can't see them; they are squished against him, but I'm sure he can feel my nipples. Hard. Aching. In any other situation. On any other day. He'd have taken me by now. But tonight his touch is like a feature. His hesitation makes me feel like a broken bird. A broken pigeon.
Not a falcon.
