“No,” she whimpers, pulling her hand from his. “Don’t touch me.”
“Jenna,” he tries, reaching for her.
“No,” she says with more clarity, pulling back, trying to scamper off my lap.
I hold up a hand, gesturing for him to back up.
“Don’t touch me,” she says with urgency, trying to push off my lap and get farther away from him.
Killian gets up, steps away. “I’m so sorry,” he says, giving her the distance she needs.
“No,” she pants. “No, no, no.” She keeps trying to crawl out of my lap, but I hold on, knowing I’m not the one she needs to get away from.
“I’m s-so sorry, Jenna,” Killian repeats with deep regret just before he backs out of the room and disappears.
“Shh, I’ve got you, sweetheart,” I assure. “It’s just you and me. Just breathe.” I place a hand on her chest. “Look at me.”
Her eyes linger on the door for a moment before they turn to me, wide and frozen, but focused.
“Good girl. Keep watching me while you breathe. Deep into your belly.” I draw a long inhale, rubbing her chest as she imitates, drawing her focus into her body. I keep guiding her flow of air until she’s breathing somewhat normally andexhaustion overcomes her. Her shoulders slump, eyes becoming distant again.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, pulling her into me.
When I carry her back to bed a while later, she has drifted off again. She’s not quite as unresponsive as last night, but there’s not much life either.
I repress a sigh as I crawl into bed and pull her close, preparing for the long road ahead of getting Jenna back.
58
The Softening
Jenna
The days blur together. Unbearably long stretches of nothingness, dazed jumps in time, and slow patches of painful awareness.
Ian slowly coaxes me back to life, making me hold his gaze, talk, and move. It’s tempting to refuse, because each time he awakens a part of my body, the memories come rushing. The nose hook, the pink tail, the sticky cum. Killian’s cruel words. But as much as I don’t want to face them, I can’t resist Ian’s steady presence. So I let him bring me back, and I succumb to the hurt that awaits me on the other side. It rips through me in tides of tears and sobs that seem to have no end. The godawful hate that comes with it feels like it’s about to tear me apart from the inside.
“I hate him,” I whisper the first time I let that agonizing emotion rise to the surface.
“You hate him,” Ian echoes. “I know. It’s okay.”
Hearing he doesn’t blame me spurs me on. “I hate him,” I repeat with more clarity. “I hate him. So damn much.” I keep repeating while Ian rocks me, telling me it’s okay, and witheach time I do, the fury rises, wanting to burst free and tear everything apart—maybe even myself.
“Let it all out,” Ian urges, tightening his arms around me as if knowing just how dangerous all that hatred feels. “I’ll hold you together. I’ve got you.”
“I hate him!” I yell, bucking forward against his arm, writhing when it offers no give.
“You hate him,” he says in a firm voice that drives my anger.
“I hate him!” I scream with the full power of my lungs.
“That’s right. Scream,” he says, repositioning a hand to rest it on my stomach. “Scream from deep within your belly.”
Screaming and jerking, I let the storm rage, knowing that it won’t tear me or anything else apart as long as Ian has me. He keeps an arm tightly banded around me, and I fight against him, needing to feel his unbreakable strength as I let the anger knock me off my feet and throw me into spinning chaos.
I claw at my skin, then at the pillow Ian hands me, and I keep screaming, my words morphing into nonsensical strings of pure, violent rage. It keeps going and going, wearing me out until I collapse. Then come the tears, and I scramble to turn in Ian’s arms and burrow into him. He rocks me through the tearing grief, caressing me and whispering tender words of reassurance.
It keeps going like that for several days. Numbness, anger, and tears. Sometimes, when I’m screaming my lungs raw, Killian will come and ask if there’s anything he can do, and I send him away with a demonic wail. Hurt flashes across his features just before he leaves. In the moment, it feels good to see him like that, but once the anger fades, it only hurts. But even so, when I’m calm and he comes and asks if he can hold me, my answer is the same—not a scream, but a clear demand for him to go away. I don’t want anything to do with him, yet my heart aches for him with a force stronger than ever before.
