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I blow out a steadying breath as my dick rests against her. Panting and sweating.

“I’m yours, Xander,” she whispers again through hollow breaths.

I think the ice just melted from around my heart.

I place a kiss on her back, and it feels like sealing our fate.

Chapter 41

Camila

Moonlight streams through the open curtains of the cabin. I’ve been tossing and turning since we went to bed; sleep has been evading me.

Xander took it upon himself to even bring Sid’s bed with us, which is currently where Obsidian is curled up, sleeping peacefully.

Xander’s heart beats beneath my ear, and I realise it’s a sound that I never want to stop listening to. I tilt my head to look at him. The moonlight highlights the sharpest parts of his face; his eyebrows are relaxed. He looks peaceful. His chest rises and falls steadily. He’s sleeping like someone who’s been deprived of sleep for years, and maybe he has been.

Sighing, I unpeel myself from him. His arm falls to the bed as I twist. I tap my phone screen on the bedside table, and it lights up, displaying three-fifteen in the morning.

I haven’t been able to stop replaying that horrifying night since being reminded of it during the film. And it’s killing me to keep everything inside. Somewhere along the way, I’ve found comfort in Xander. A safe space. And I wonder if telling him would ease some of the torment inside me. But then I remember that ugly fucking scar, and every thought I have of telling him vanishes.

Xander and I have good sex. Really fucking good. ‘Good’ probably isn’t even the word to describe it. But every time it’s over, I relive those nights of misery again. It’s not healthy, and it’s not fair on Xander. What if he thinks I'm using him for my own selfish reasons when I tell him what happened?

I sit up in bed, pulling my knees up to my chest and hugging my arms around my legs. Flashes of Luke, the sounds of zippers coming undone, the knife entering my flesh—all these memories cloud my thoughts, and my eyes begin to sting. I run my finger over the thin scar on the side of my thigh, shivering.

Bringing my forehead to my knees, I press in hard, trying to rid those thoughts from my head, but it’s useless. My mind is stuck in an endless loop of reliving those events.

“Angel?” Xander’s gravelly voice cuts through the fog.

I gasp, whipping my head up.

“What are you doing awake?” he asks, pushing himself up, tattooed arms rippling in the streaks of moonlight.

He presses himself against the headboard; the weight of the movement dips my side of the mattress down with him.

“I can’t sleep,” I whisper.

“I can tell,” he chuckles lightly, placing his hand on my knee. It’s a comforting touch.

I breathe deeply, letting it out through my mouth.

I’m preparing myself to tell him. I want to tell him. I need to tell him. I'm tired of feeling guilty every time we have sex.

He rubs his hand up and down my knee.

A lump starts building in my throat before I even attempt to say anything. Fuck, I hate this. I hate Luke. I hate what he did to me. I hate what he made me.

“What is it?” Xander cuts through my thoughts again.

I squeeze my eyes, fisting my hands on my thighs.

I swallow. “I need you to make me forget, Xander.”

He shifts. I don’t make eye contact, but I see him in the corner of my vision. He moves to kneel in front of me on the bed, sitting back on his heels. “Forget what?”

I swallow again, my throat suddenly dry.

This is so fucked up.