“He made me touch.”
My ribs collapse.
“He told me it was worship.” His jaw shakes. “He told me I was good when I didn’t cry. He told me I was perfect when I begged him not to stop.”
A sob punches out of him.
His eyes squeeze shut.
His whole body folds like he’s going to shatter under the weight of remembering.
“He told me love felt like that.”
My throat burns.
He drags his hands into my hair, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath desperate, his voice breaking in pieces.
“I lock you down because I don’t know another way to keep you.”
“I want to be kept,” I whisper, tears burning. His breath catches. “I want you to cage me.”
His eyes open, wet, wrecked. “Why?”
“Because I think when you cage me, you’re caging yourself, too.” I press my lips to his, soft, slow, real. “And I don’t want you to leave, Damien.”
His chest cracks.
His hands fist in my hair, dragging me closer.
“I won’t leave.” His mouth crushes mine, desperate, ruined, feral. “I’ll never leave.”
His lips bruise me.
His body cages me.
His breath shudders.
And for the first time, I think he believes me.
His breath drags rough against my temple, his grip bruising my waist like he’s still trying to anchor himself to the moment, to me, to this.
His thumb brushes over the small, faint scar on my ribs—the one I always thought was nothing. A scratch from childhood. A mark I couldn’t remember getting.
His hand lingers there longer than usual.
Too long.
Like he knows something about it.
Like he’s seen it before.
His breath catches, but he doesn’t speak.
He presses his lips to the scar, soft, deliberate.
His voice is almost gone when he finally whispers, “I should’ve taken you sooner.”
My throat tightens.
