I don’t speak, either. I doubt she’d tell me what nightmares plague her mind, and I know words won’t ease her pain. She doesn’t need me to listen.
Lifting the comforter, I pull her closer, slipping an arm around her before I tuck us in.
It’s not enough.
I guide her right hand over my chest, a surprisingly steady rhythm under her fingertips.
Slowly, almost like she expects to be pushed away, she curves into me, burrowing her face into my neck. She grasps a handful of my t-shirt before fresh tears leave a damp trail on my skin.
I don’t knowhowI know this. Whether it’s from her shudders changing tune from desperation to cautious relief, her muscles relaxing despite the tears, or if I have some sixth sense about me, but I knowshe was never held like this.
No one ever offered her comfort just for the sake of it. Just to help her cage her demons. No one gave her a shoulder to cry on without a hidden agenda, always expecting something in return.
It’s obvious in the way she clings to me, full of caution and surprise, like she can’t believe this is happening.
Me neither... for so many different reasons I don’t know which matters most. She shouldn’t fit this well pressed against me. She shouldn’t make my chest inflate as she relaxes, her body no longer wound up tight. She shouldn’t fucking behere.
The thought has my arms unconsciously tightening around her frail body. I don’t want her here. I can’t stand her ninety-nine percent of the time, but the thought of letting her go drops something heavy in my chest.
Minutes go by before I realize my fingers are brushing her soft hair up and down. The longer I do this, the more her body lets go of the tension it’s been holding.
Her breaths even out. Her frantic grasp on my shirt turns into a gentle hold as if she’s allowing herself to be vulnerable in my arms. Her tears slow while my mind repeats the same questions.
How long has she been hurting like this?
Whohurt her?
How many times has she cried herself to sleep?
I don’t know. I’ll never know, but for now, I hold her a little tighter, offering a safe haven from whatever plagues her mind, but it’s not until dawn that she finally falls asleep.
THIRTEEN
Blair
THE FIRST THOUGHT THAT FILTERS through my sleep-hazed mind isn’t my predicament. It’s how warm Cody feels with his big arms cradling me close. I can’t remember the last time someone held me like this.
I’ve been hugged, but those were quick, fleeting moments. Casual, friendly... nowhere near this intensity. His grip is almost possessive.Protective. Like he’s drawn a circle around us, keeping out the rest of the world.
I’ve never been this close to him, and despite the voice in my head shouting that this is a terrible idea, I take a second to savor the moment. It’s like I was custom-made to fit molded into his side, my nose brushing his neck, my head on the pillow. He’s asleep, his chest rising and falling softly.
My fingers grasp his t-shirt above the calm thump-thump of his heartbeat, almost lulling me back to sleep.
But my memories of last night settle in, reminding me why I’m here. The surreal bliss disintegrates, tainted by my father’s words.
After Dad took over the conversation with his newest victim, I excused myself from the table and sat at the bar for a while, letting them talk. Then, feigning a migraine in front of Dad’s bodyguard, I left.
I didn’t think I needed permission. Dad never calls me back into action once he’s talking business.
Unfortunately, Mr. Simons is not as easily outmaneuvered as my father hoped. After the initial business chat, he told Dad he’d think about his proposal, then went to find me, eager to finish ourconversation.
The way my father saidconversationpainted the picture—he knew Mr. Simons couldn’t care less about small talk.
I shut my eyes, blocking the humiliation.
My father, instead of protecting me from harm, wants me to spend today on the yacht of an older man who he knows tried to slide his fingers up my skirt during dessert. I feel sick at the thought.
Granted, Dad said he’ll join us, but that won’t help me.
