He flinches, and my heart fractures. No denial. No protest. Only acceptance.
“When you left Boston, I did not know how I would survive on my own. You were my…” the right word eludes me until I pull the duvet up to my chest, “my anchor. With you, I did not have to be strong.”
“But you are.” He sits up, his back against the headboard, and takes me in his arms. “You amaze me, Lisette. I know Navy SEALs who wouldn’t have survived what you did.”
“That is not my point.” I can still feel the wall he has built between us, though his heartthumpssteadily under my palm. “I had to learn how to bemeagain. I was no one for a very long time. Then, I became a mother. But that isallI was. There was no Lisette. I found myself in those long months of isolation. We were all alone in that apartment. Mateen’s body could not fight off infection, so we had to stay away from everyone. I learned how to be strong. What I liked. What I did not. I read books. I painted. I tried to cook—and almost started many fires. I made Mateen cry when I sang along to the radio.”
Nomar chuckles with me. I like hearing him…happy. Lighter. I think he has not had much reason to laugh of late.
“I know who I am now. And I know what I want in my life.WhoI want in my life.” He stiffens, and I cup his cheek so I can kiss him. His walls start to crumble when my tongue traces the seam of his lips. Will they fall completely? Or in the light of day, will he build them back up once again?
With a groan, Nomar pulls me into his arms. He consumes me, and I him, until exhaustion drags us under.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nomar
I wake up alone.In a bed that smells like her—likeus—with my dick tenting the sheets.
I didn’t dream it. Lisette and I shared something perfect. Real. But she doesn’t know anything about me, and I’m too much of a fucking coward to tell her the truth.
I’ve been in love with her for three years. If I lose her now…it might kill me. It’s only a little after 8:00 a.m., and through the open bedroom door, I hear her moving around downstairs.
My scar pulls tight as I sit up. The memory of the blade is still so fresh. And thesoundit made tearing through my shirt and into my skin. How can something so quiet still ring in my ears?
Tugging on my hair to the point of pain, I will the dark thoughts away and search for my clothes. I need a shower. Need to wash her scent from my body before I beg her for more than I have any right to ask for.
So why am I going downstairs?
She sits at the table, a silk robe wrapped around her body and a cup of coffee in her hands. Exhaustion lingers in the slight bags under her eyes, but when she sees me, she smiles. “Good morning. I have very little for breakfast. Only what is left from last night. And Cheerios.”
“All I need is some coffee. If that’s okay.”
She waves her hand toward the kitchen. The fancy machine reminds me of the one from her apartment in Boston, and I push the button for a double-shot of espresso.
The first sip brings a jolt to my system, and I sink into a chair next to her. “If I never see a cup of tea again, it’ll be too soon.”
Her laugh brings such a lightness to her expression—her whole body—I’m determined to find a way to get her to do it again and again.
“One of the nurses in Uzbekistan brought me tea the first night we were there. I did not want to offend her, so as soon as she left, I poured it down the sink. But I did not think to have coffee until Noele came. That firstcafe au laitwas the best thing I have ever had. I thought…it tasted like freedom.”
“The first cup of tea I had when I went back to Afghanistan was pure sugar. I almost threw up all over Sha—my host’s shoes.”
She frowns, as if she wants to ask, but then shakes her head. “In Islam, there are close to ninety days a year one is expected to fast. During those times, the other women—they were wives of his men, mostly—would drink so much tea. The common rooms reeked of it. They claimed it helped with the hunger. But it only made me nauseous. I spent many of those days alone in my room.”
“Did you convert?”
Lisette flinches, a soft inhale accompanying the motion. “I had to. Or…pretend to. Faruk gave me a year—enough time to learn long passages from the Quran—then demanded it. But I was raised Catholic. I found a priest at St. Jude’s and gave my confession a few days after we arrived in Boston.”
“And Mateen? He’d started to pray with the men. Was he—?”
Her expression warns me I should back off, but before I can tell her not to answer, she sighs. “In Islam, a child born to Muslim parents is Muslim. But they are not required to pray until they reach puberty. Faruk was…a zealot. He wanted his son to be just like him. A few days before Joey was taken, Mateen tried to stop his father from beating me. That was when Faruk made him start joining the men for prayers. He thought it would teach him…submission.”
Fuck. With everything I learn about her time as his prisoner, I wish I’d been the one to end him. McCabe was too easy on the asshole. He deserved to be carved up in to tiny pieces. Slowly. Over days. Weeks, even.
I move so I’m crouching next to her, my hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Any of it.”
Sorrow wells in the depths of her green eyes. “It is—was—my life, Nomar. As much as I hate what Faruk did to me, as much as I hatehim, if I had never been taken, my son would not exist. I am alive. Safe. As is Mateen.”
