I swallow, voice shaking. “What if Flint thinks so, too? What if when he looks at me, that’s all he sees? That I let someone–” My voice cracks. “That I couldn’t stop it."
Her hands find my knee, firm and grounding. “Cas. Stop. Stop right there. You didn’tletanything happen. Brett tried to take something you didn’t want to give. He pushed past your boundaries, over and over, and that’s onhim,not you. You fought. You screamed. Yousurvived.That doesn’t make you dirty — it makes you strong ashell.”
Tears sting my eyes, hot and furious. “I don’t feelstrong.I feelbroken.Like he ruined me. Like Flint deserves someone whole and untouched and–”
“HEY!” Her voice cuts sharp, then softens. “Your anxiety is lying to you. Listen to me. Flint doesn’twantuntouched. He wantsyou,you silly bitch. The messy, stubborn, book-hoarding, secret-chocolate-muffin-devouring disaster who cries at movies and forgets people in the shop. The hot mess express that keeps Wanderlust running and Betsy out of jail. Who’s writing a best-selling book because she’s toofucking stubbornto give up on her dream. He doesn’t want some shiny, fake, porcelain doll who’s never seen pain.” She shakes my shoulder. “He wants you, you fucking idiot.”
My breath catches.
“And as for ruined?” She leans in, gripping my hand hard now. “You arenotruined. You arenottainted. You arenotless. Brett doesn’t get to ownanyof you, not a speck. Not your body. Not your soul. Not with the way Flint looks at you like youhung the fucking moon.”
A sob escapes, before I can stop it. Annemarie pulls me against her shoulder and I finally let the tears fall.
“You’re allowed to feel gross. You’re allowed to feel scared and violated,” she murmurs into my hair. “But don’t confusewhat he didwithwho you are.You’re still you. And Flint? He’s never going to see you as anything less thaneverything.” She gives me a little shake. “Flint is clearly miserable. You’re clearly miserable. Talk. To. Him.”
For the first time since I felt Brett’s hands on me in that alleyway, I feel the weight in my chest ease. “When did you get so fucking smart?” I sniffle, my head resting on her shoulder.
“Shut the fuck up. I’ve always been smart.” I let out awatery laugh. She kisses the top of my head. “It’s all gonna be okay, babe.”
It’s not peace, not yet. It feels like something inside me has broken, but I feel like it’s coming back together in a different pattern. Not the same, but maybe stronger. And maybe, just the tiniest spark of hope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The gym smells like iron and sweat, the rhythmic slam of weights echoing against the concrete walls. My hands are raw, chalk burned into my palms, but I don’t stop. The barbell crashes down again, rattling against the rack. I load on more plates, like I can pin my thoughts with them.
Ash’s face keeps rising in my mind — tear-streaked, pale,trembling.
I’ve been keeping my distance and it’s fuckingkillingme.
I can fight. I can kill. I’ve done both, in defense of myself, of her, of our people and everything we hold dear.
I’d killhim, if I could find him. I’ve had long hours considering all the long, torturous ways in which I could extract the price owed for her fear and pain.
But I can’t touch her. Every time I start to reach for her, every time my hand has hovered close, my chest seizes with fear.
What if she seeshiminstead? Isn’t that what she said?
I slam through another rep, teeth bared. Sweat pours down my back, my face. My muscles scream, but the pain of this is easier to bear than the image of her recoiling from me.
You should’ve been there. You should’ve walked her home. You should’ve stopped it.
The voice gnaws at me relentlessly. I grip the bar so hard my knuckles whiten.What if she never lets me touch her again? What if my arms — my hands — feel like his? What if she looks at me and sees him?
The thought nearly makes me drop the weight on my chest. I shove it back onto the rack with a roar. I sit up, chest heaving. My reflection in the wall-length mirror looks feral – jaw clenched, eyes bloodshot, shadows carved deep beneath them. I drag a hand through my damp hair, trying to steady my breathing. “I can’t lose her,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice breaking. “Not like this. Not because of him.” I don’t know if I’m talking to myself, pleading with the Gods, or both.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands dangling between them, shaking. I press my palms together hard,like I can grind away the memory of another man’s hands on her.
“I don’t know how to hold her without hurting her,” I admit to the still air around me. “I don’t know how to keep her safe without risking breaking her apart.”
The silence is crushing. I’ve survived war, but her silence iskillingme.
I pick the weights back up. If I stop moving, stop punishing myself, the fear might devour me whole.
Wanderlust is quiet, the doors locked, the lights dim. The scent of the aged paper is soothing. Flint is closing with me tonight. We work in silence and I find myself aching for those months where the silence was easy, instead of stretched and brittle.
It’s been weeks of carefully tip-toeing around what happened. I don’t want to talk about it. I desperately just want to pretend nothing ever happened, and go on as normal. If I can forget most of my life, why the fuck can’t I forget this too?
We’re being so careful with each other and we’re going fucking nowhere.
