Page 150 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

They had buried themselves in the deepest parts of me.

“I lost my parents, and now . . .” My throat tightened, the words clawing their way out. “Now I can’t even create a family of my own.”

The ache was a hollow thing, an echo inside my chest. Not grief nor anger. It was the aching absence of something I’d never get to hold.

For years, I had convinced myself that if I ignored it, it wouldn’t hurt so much. That if I worked harder, pushed forward, became someone worthy—I could outrun the emptiness inside me.

I couldn’t.

Because no matter how fast I moved, no matter how much I distracted myself, it was always there.

The knowledge that my body had failed me.

That I wasn’t whole.

That I would never have the chance to be what I once thought I could be.

I shifted, my fingers twitching against his as he dropped his hand from my cheek and brought my hand to rest on his leg.

I needed to scrub it away.

The filth, the memories, the feeling of Mike still clinging to my skin.

I needed to erase this night, the confrontation, the way my past had crashed into my present, forcing me to face things I never wanted to say out loud.

I needed to be clean.

But Beau didn’t let go.

He simply held my hand, his grip steady, like he could feel me slipping and was making damn sure I didn’t.

I couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t bear to see pity or sadness or anything that would make me feel smaller than I already did.

So I stared at the table, my chest tight, my throat burning.

“I feel—” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard. “I feel like there’s something wrong with me.”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles, grounding me.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Fable,” he murmured.

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers tightening around his for a second before my body screamed at me to let go.

To run. To cleanse.

To make this feeling go away.

The weight of everything inside me finally cracked open, and I broke.

“That’s why I couldn’t come to the hospital,” I sobbed. “I was broken. I am terrified.” I sucked in a ragged breath, my hands trembling. “I see doctors virtually because I can’t step into a hospital. I barely go to appointments without having a full-blown panic attack.”

Deep breaths.

I wiped at my face, inhaling shakily. “But . . . in the last few weeks, I’ve been working on being a better version of myself. For myself.” My voice wobbled, but I pushed through it. “I’ve been going to therapy. Trying to outrun this obsession with being clean, trying to stop myself from needing control over every little thing.”

Beau didn’t hesitate.

“Good,” he said simply, his voice steady. “I’m glad you’re doing it for yourself.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I wish you’d told me this.”