I shift against him and realize how tangled we are—every inch of me pressed against every inch of him. Including the hard length of him against my hip. I know what that means, even with my limited experience. I try to move away.
“Don’t.” His palm flattens on my lower back, holding me in place. “I like you right where you are.”
“But you’re... I mean, shouldn’t we...”
“When you’re ready for more, you’ll tell me. Until then, I’m fine like this.”
He says it as if this—as if us—makes sense.
This still doesn’t feel real. I feel almost as if I’m living someone else’s life. Borrowing someone else’s happiness.
Over breakfast, he informs me that a doctor is coming this afternoon to give me a thorough examination.
“I’m not sick.”
“I want to make sure you’re alright. That there’s no lasting damage from…”
His words trail off, and I go cold. He means from my father. The abuse, the beatings.
“I’m fine.”
“Humor me. Please.”
The doctor is a woman—kind, professional, and gentle. She takes a medical history I’m embarrassed to give. I’ve rarely seen doctors.
She examines me in the bedroom while Cillian—on her orders—waits in the hall. He wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t argue. Much. And I can hear his footsteps out there as he paces.
Using a portable ultrasound device, she finds several old fractures—two ribs, a collarbone, and my left wrist—all healed without proper medical care. Under her thorough examination, she also notes my faded scars, as well as the evidence of the years I’ve gone without sufficient nutrition.
“Have you ever been sexually assaulted?” A routine question, but her tone is careful.
“No. No one has ever…done that.”
I give permission for her to speak freely about her findings in front of Cillian, but when she does, I want to disappear. She lists the damage aloud—malnutrition, poorly healed fractures, and vitamin deficiencies. Cillian stands motionless beside me. I can feel the rage coming off him in waves.
After she leaves, he’s quiet for a long time. I know he’s mad. But instead of throwing things or yelling and screaming his frustration, he’s just quiet.
“Broken ribs.” His voice is flat when he finally speaks. “Burn scars. All this happened while you were a child.”
“It’s over. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me.” He takes my hand and presses it to his mouth. “He’ll never touch you again. No one will ever hurt you again.”
“I know.”
“Do you? You’re mine now. And I’ll kill anyone who lays a finger on you.”
The aggression, the brutality of the statement, should scare me. It doesn’t. Just the opposite. It makes me feel treasured. And it’s the first time in as long as I can remember—maybe the first time ever—that I’ve felt treasured.
I run my fingers along the shelf in the living room, trying to decide which one to start with.
The moment we walked through the door from our shopping excursion yesterday, Cillian cleared the shelf and arranged my books on it.
“Your books. Your bookcase. Your home.”
Three sentences, but the meaning behind them is huge.
They were—an invitation, a declaration, a door held open.
