Chapter 14

I should have been terrifiedfrom the moment I'd heard him shout the curse from his bedroom, but strangely enough, I wasn't. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew in my heart that Dalton would never hurt me. I didn't count the time he'd reacted with violence after I'd woken him from his nightmare.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

So no, I wasn't scared. I was angry. Really fucking angry.

That was how I knew I was physically safe from Dalton. If I'd done the same thing to Ivan, I would have been beaten within an inch of my life. I didn't know how to feel about that. I'd known Dalton for just over two weeks and even though we'd barely spoken a word to one another, I'd learned a lot about him from his habits and routine.

I'd learned a lot of other things too, especially during all of my cleaning sessions.

Instead of instantly confronting me, Dalton stormed to the sink and dumped out the water. He spun around and reached for the whiskey. He turned so he was facing the window and took a long swallow of the alcohol, paused for a beat, then took two more swigs. He slammed the bottle down on the counter so hard I was surprised it didn't break. He braced his arms on each side of the sink. The muscles in his arms and back bulged, proof that he was struggling to get control of himself. Under any other circumstances, I would have been drinking my fill of the half-naked gorgeous man, but not today. There were too many emotions swirling around inside of me. I chose to focus on the anger because that was what I needed to get through this.

It could have been minutes or hours before Dalton pushed away from the kitchen counter and moved to the table. He used his foot to kick out the other chair so he could sit. It wasn't lost on me that he didn't seem to be in as much pain as he should have been. It was probably the alcohol. The pills wouldn't start to work for a while yet.

Dalton ran his hands through his hair a few times. I took those seconds to study his chest. I hadn't really had a chance to see it in full the day I'd literally thrown myself at him. Now I could see that like his back, scars were scattered all over his torso. Some were deeper than others. The dark hairs that lightly covered his chest and abdomen didn't hide the scars. In fact, they were easy to see because wherever there was a scar, there was no hair to cover it.

I wondered what running my fingers over the scars would feel like, but I wondered even more if the hair on his body was soft or wiry. The thing I really wanted to see was how far below the waistband of his jeans those hairs went. Despite shooting my release over his well-muscled abdomen that day, I couldn't remember what they'd felt like.

"Why?" Dalton demanded, tearing me from the erotic memory. He seemed a bit calmer, but I knew anger still consumed him.

If it felt anything like what I'd been feeling for the last twelve hours, it would be burning through him—coursing through every drop of his blood and making every nerve feel raw and exposed.

"To make sure," I responded.

"Make sure of what?" Dalton snapped.

"To make sure I was right. You're an alcoholic."

That most definitely got the man's attention. He lifted his head, his dark green eyes burning.

"What the fuck?—"

"I had to look it up to know what it's called," I interrupted. Before he could even ask his next question, I added, "I used your computer. I looked up a lot of things."

Dalton glanced at the money in front of me.

"I want you out," Dalton snarled. He began to rise, presumably to grab the bottle of whiskey.

"I'm already packed," I responded. I nudged my chin in the direction of the door where a plastic bag was hanging from the handle. "I'm taking a few of the things you bought me at the store. It took a while to figure out how much it all cost, but the Walmart website was very helpful."

I put my hand on the stack of bills—every single one he'd given me over the past two weeks. "I figure we're even on the clothes I'm keeping. They add up to what anyone else doing the same work would be making. I had to guess on how much the gas cost."

"What gas?" Dalton asked. He'd sat back down instead of going for the bottle.

"The gas you paid for to drive me to and from the bus station."

"What the fuck is all this?" Dalton asked angrily.

I ignored the question. "Why do you hide the bottles?" I asked. "Was that for my benefit or do you do it all the time?"

Dalton turned his head and stared at the entrance to the living room. He didn't answer me.

"I lost count after twelve," I continued. "I didn't bother counting the empty ones in the trash out back and I'm sure I missed some, especially when I searched your boat. All those little cabinets?—"

"You were on my boat?" Dalton asked, his gaze swinging back to me.

"You're an addict too. Not like Ivan, though. He liked sniffing white powder up his nose. He took pills too, but I never looked at them and even if I had, I wouldn't have known what they were. He seemed to like the powder?—"

"Stop it, okay. Just stop it," Dalton ordered. His voice was noticeably quieter, but I could still feel the rage simmering inside of him. "You don't know shit about me," he added.

"I know you're kind, thoughtful, generous… protective," I answered. It physically pained me to watch an array of expressions pass over his features. The shame was the worst. I nearly got up to make my escape just so I wouldn't have to see it, much less know that I was the one causing it, but for some reason I didn't want to give too much thought to, I couldn't do it. I couldn't just walk out that door. Not after everything I'd seen.

"I know you hurt," I continued, my voice automatically softening as I thought about all the times I'd seen Dalton consumed with pain. "Not just on the outside."

Dalton didn't deny it. His eyes kept moving to different parts of the room, but they never stayed on me. "So what else did my computer say about me?" he finally asked. The rage was burning out but there was no missing the disappointment in his expression and his voice. I didn't know if that emotion was directed at me or at himself, though.

I pulled in a deep breath as my own anger began to fade and all of the other emotions started to hit me.

"Not enough," I admitted. "It didn't have the answer I wanted most."

"Yeah, and what was that?" Dalton asked tiredly. I suspected the pills and alcohol were kicking in. "What happened to make Dalton a worthless, pathetic piece of shit?" He laughed harshly. "Don't bother trying to open that treasure chest, Silver. I don't need your pity."

"I don't pity you, Dalton. Far from it. I'm scared for you. I'm so fucking scared," I admitted. Tears stung the backs of my eyes. I wiped at them before they could fall. There'd been dozens of horror stories about people like Dalton. People who were so lost within themselves that the only thing they cared about was whatever thing kept them from feeling. Mothers chose drugs over their children, once gentle fathers became physically violent after drinking too much. Innocent strangers had been killed by those who'd decided they could drive home despite the fact that they could barely stand or walk a straight line.

"What was the question?" Dalton asked. He was much quieter now. If I hadn't seen for myself how much alcohol and pills he needed to take just to function, I wouldn't have realized he had a problem.

"What?" I asked in confusion.

"The one my computer couldn't answer—the one you wanted to know most."

As badly as I wanted to know all the things that had driven the man to where he was now, I selfishly needed to know something else. It had been the question I'd been clinging to for two weeks now.

"Why me?" I asked. "Why did you ask me to stay when you could've just as easily let me get out of that car the day you took me to the bus station?" Now I was the one staring at my lap.

"I don't have an answer for that," Dalton murmured.

His response hurt more than I'd expected. He didn't want my pity, but no doubt that was the reason he'd done all this. The request to stay in his car that day, the excess money he'd paid me to clean up his house, the things he'd bought that I hadn't realized had been specifically for me. The man had bought all sorts of cookies and chips that he himself never ate. He'd purchased things I hadn't even known I'd needed. Shampoo, something called shower gel that it had taken me forever to realize was to wash my body in the shower, not to wash the shower itself. I still didn't know what some of the things he'd gotten me were for. It was only a few days ago that I'd looked up what deodorant was.

The internal pain began to consume me, so I did what I'd done from the moment a handful of strange men had killed my tormentor before herding me onto a plane without being given an explanation… or a choice.

I fled.

Or tried to.

I managed to stand and take a few steps toward the door before Dalton's hand shot out. His fingers closed around my wrist, but his grip was gentle. I wanted to cry because even after all I'd said and done, he was still worried about hurting me.

When Dalton stood, I had this fleeting moment of joy because I thought he was going to pull me against his body and close those strong arms around me.

Instead, he took a few steps around the table and grabbed the chair I'd been sitting in. He moved it so it was sitting next to his chair rather than across the table from it. He didn't release me, but he also didn't urge me to sit.

He was giving me a choice.

A choice that I knew would leave me trying to pick up the broken pieces of myself no matter which decision I made.

I wouldn't get the answer as to why I instinctively knew whenever he was nearby, why my chest always hurt when he wasn't, and why I even cared. I'd spent every night watching Dalton drink himself to sleep on the couch, his endless supply of pills always nearby. I'd had so many opportunities to walk out the door and get lost in the darkened forest long before he woke. Hell, I could have even taken his car if I'd known how to drive, not that I would have.

The truth was I felt alone and vulnerable when he disappeared into the darkness the pills and alcohol offered. Fortunately, he wasn't like the people I'd read about. He never lifted a hand toward me or said anything unkind. When he was lost in a drunken stupor, it was like I wasn't even there. During the day it was the exact opposite. I could feel his eyes on me all the time and sensed the same need coursing through him that ate away at me every minute of every hour. I should have been glad that our arrangement hadn't included anything even remotely close to sex.

I wasn't.

Since I'd only had the one experience with the true pleasure that came from being with someone who'd given me the right to say no, I'd tried to experience that same thing when I was alone in my bed at night. Try as I might, I'd never been able to get my dick to respond like it had when Dalton had put his hands on me. I didn't know what was worse… having that one moment to hold on to for the rest of my life or reliving the memory night after night only to be left with the painful realization that I couldn't bring myself even a small amount of that same pleasure.

Despite all the warning bells in my head, I sat down in the chair. I immediately missed his touch when he removed his hand from my wrist.

An awkward silence hung over us as we both sat at the small kitchen table. I wasn't sure who was supposed to talk first, but since I couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't expose my true feelings, I kept my mouth shut.

"I don't remember much about when I was a little kid," Dalton began. "I found out when I was older that I'd been left on the doorstep of a church when I was about two or so. There was no note explaining who I was or where I'd come from. I assume the authorities tried to find my parents, but they never did. Like you, I don't know when my real birthday is or how old I actually am. I don't remember what my real name was. No one ever told me if I'd known at that age what my first name was. People began calling me Dalton, so I just figured that was my name."

"What people?" I asked. I could already feel pieces of myself being chipped away at.

"The ones who worked for the foster care system."

"Foster care?" I shook my head because I'd never heard those words before.

Dalton was drumming his fingers on the table. They were so close to mine that I ached to wrap my hand around his.

"When kids don't have a home for whatever reason, they're placed in foster care. There are people called social workers who try to help find those kids new homes, but it's not a fast or easy process. While they're looking, kids end up either in what's called a group home or they get placed with people who've volunteered to take care of them until a permanent family can be found to take the kid in," Dalton explained. I had a feeling there was a lot more to it than the straightforward picture he was painting.

"Which one were you in? A group home or with a family?" I had no idea what a group home was but based on the name itself, it seemed pretty self-explanatory.

"Both," Dalton said. The emotion in his voice was slowly bleeding away, each word sounding duller than the previous one.

"How old were you when you found a family? Not the one that was temporary, but a real one?"

Dalton merely shook his head. I wanted to know more but I also didn't want him to shut down completely. He seemed tired, like the life was draining out of him bit by bit. Part of it was probably the pain medication, but the rest was a clear sign that whatever had happened to him—whether he'd gotten a real family or not—hadn't gone well.

"What happened?" I gently prodded.

"I bounced around a few foster homes until I was fifteen. Some of the families were good, some not, and some were so packed full of foster kids that it was easy to get lost in them. I liked those the best."

"You liked being invisible," I offered.

Dalton nodded. "I figured it would be easier. I'd made the mistake of getting attached to the families early on. It took me a while to understand that no one wanted to keep me forever."

My heart broke for him as I considered what it would have been like to feel like part of a family one minute only to be sent to another without explanation.

"When I was fifteen, I went to live with this couple who were first-time foster parents. They were nice enough, but it wasn't hard to figure out that they were in it for the money."

"Money?" I asked. "Were you… sold?" I felt like I was going to be sick as I remembered the day I'd been traded for a small bag of drugs.

I must have visibly reacted to both his words and my own experience because Dalton closed his fingers around mine. They felt warm and strong.

"How about we go sit outside?" Dalton suggested as he stood and snagged a t-shirt from the fresh laundry I'd finished folding right before I'd confronted him.

I managed a nod as he reached for my hand again, but I knew outside wouldn't be any better because whatever Dalton was going to tell me would do what I'd feared from the moment he'd picked me up on the side of that busy road.

Break me.