I keep my eyes closed and my lips sealed, and he leaves the room just as darkness welcomes me.
I wake to the smell of minty freshness, blinking my eyes open in the dark room. A hint of buttery sunshine creeps through a tiny gap in the curtains, casting scant light in the room, but it’s enough to see. Kent is sitting in the chair by the bed in nothing but sweatpants, staring at me as he holds a mug, little mists of steam cresting at the top of the drink.
“What time is it?” I ask, cringing at how rough my voice sounds. I pull myself up in the bed, resting my tired body against the headrest.
Kent closes his eyes, and his fingers grip the mug tight. “It’s after twelve,” he admits. “We both slept late.” His eyes open again, and he stares at me with a host of conflicting emotions. “Here.” He thrusts his arm out, offering me the mug. “I made you peppermint tea.”
Our fingers brush in the exchange, and his touch sends the usual fiery tingles shooting up my arm. My lower lip wobbles, and tears immediately pool in my eyes.
“Presley, I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, resting his head in his hands. “I know I’ve fucked everything up. I knew I would because that’s what I do.”
I sip my tea, as emotions and thoughts crowd my mind, so many conflicting sentiments confusing me. “What happened to you, Kent?” I ask, ignoring my scratchy throat, because I need to understand this if I’m to find some way of forgiving him for last night.
I believe he didn’t deliberately hurt me.
I know that.
I knowhim.
He wouldn’t consciously hurt me.
He was drunk and high, and it was already an emotional day, and me touching his ass triggered him.
Since Keaton and I spoke a few weeks ago, I have been compiling theories, and I think I know what it is. But I need Kent to tell me. There is no way we can survive last night if he doesn’t give mesomething. I need to understand what drove the man I love to strangle me. “Who hurt you? Was it a man?” I ask.
“Don’t, Pres. Please don’t.” Tears roll down his cheeks, and deep-seated pain is etched upon his face.
I climb out of bed and kneel between his legs, taking his hands in mine. He holds on to me tight as he cries, and my heart breaks all over again. Stretching up, I hug him, and he falls into me, his arms going around me as he sobs. I cry too, and even though I have no details, I know some man hurt him. He was either assaulted or raped, and I am not giving up on him until I find out what happened and help him get the support he needs.
He clings to me as he cries, and his pain is visceral. It infiltrates the air, swirling around us, locking us in an anguished cage where all hope seems gone and there is only suffering. I close my eyes as I squeeze him tight, pouring my love into him, hoping he can feel it.
Gradually, his sobs die out, but we stay locked in our embrace, just holding one another, both lost, both in pain, both clueless as to how we go on from here, where we go from here.
He moves his mouth to my ear, and his rapid breaths tickle my eardrum. “Yes,” he whispers, and something inherent dies inside me at his admission.
Gently, I ease back just enough so I can see his face. “Look at me,” I whisper, keeping one hand behind his back while my other hand tilts his face up. His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, he has a lump on his forehead, and his skin is torn and grazed where he hit his head on the wall. I imagine I look equally ghastly. “Can you tell me when it happened? Who it was?”
His Adam’s apple jumps in his throat, and he slowly shakes his head. “I want to,” he croaks. “And I will, but I can’t right now.” He bites on his lip as his eyes fill up again. “You are the first person I have ever admitted that to,” he adds, and that admission saddens me as much as it reassures me. If he can talk to me, even if it is in stages, it means he’s ready to deal with what happened to him, and that is a big step forward.
“It’s okay.” I smooth my hand over his hair. “You’ve taken this first step, and that’s huge.”
“I’m so ashamed,” he whispers, averting his eyes, and pain mingles with rage inside me.
I am going to annihilate whoever hurt him. I don’t know how, but I will find a way to get justice for my love. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Kent. If someone hurt you, that is not your fault.”
“I hurtyou, Pres, because I thought you werehim. That’s what I saw in my head. How does that make me any better?” His fingers brush lightly against my neck. “You have finger-sized bruising all over your neck, and your voice is hoarse. I’m a disgusting piece of shit who doesn’t deserve your compassion.” He tries to remove my hands from his body, but I hold tight, not letting him push me away.
“It’s not the same, Kent. You weren’t present when you were hurting me. I don’t need details to know that, and we’ll get through this, but you’ve got to get help. If you love me, loveyourself, you will get professional help.”
He nods. “I’ve been thinking of doing it for weeks, and I’ll do it. I swear. I never want to hurt you again.”
A cell vibrates, and I glance over my shoulder, realizing Kent left my phone by the bed for me, along with a glass of water and some painkillers. I ignore the incessant vibrating, refocusing on Kent. “We can’t go to the barbecue looking like this.”
Today is another family event. The plan was to meet at noon outside the front of the castle, to say goodbye to most of the guests, and then convene by the pool with the kids for the afternoon before enjoying an early evening feast. We aren’t due to leave until tomorrow morning, but there is no way I can sit by a pool in a bikini wearing a scarf without drawing attention to my neck.And how would we explain the injuries to Kent’s forehead?
My cell chimes again as Kent says, “I know.” He looks over at my ringing phone. “Maybe you should get that.”
I stand, plucking my cell up to see who is calling me. I have one missed call from Ford and one from Mo. I toss it down on the bed. “It’s work. Not important.”
