16. Claire

16

CLAIRE

I shut the door behind them and leaned back against it, letting out a heavy breath. After five years, I didn't expect all those old feelings to resurface. My heart beat a little faster, my palms sweat when he was around, and my core tightened at the mere feel of his hand on mine.

It was disturbing how easily my body reacted to his. I wanted to hold him, to feel his body against mine, but I wasn't sure I could forgive him for what he did to me. Years of having him come into my life, only to disappear with the next job trained me to not expect a lot from him. Still, when Isabelle disappeared, I stupidly thought that nothing could tear us apart. We grieved together, fought together, and loved each other harder than ever before. But it wasn't enough.

I didn't care what his reasons were. He broke me, and then his enemies found me and destroyed me. Nothing could heal those wounds or scorch the images from my brain. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him with her .

Pushing off the door, I got to work cleaning up the mess I made from dinner. I didn't even invite them to stay. I had plenty of food, but the idea of having all those people in my house was too much to bear. I wasn't sure what was worse—having Michael in my house or his son I never knew about until five years ago.

Cash was a good man, that much I could tell. But that didn't ease the pain of knowing his father had another family out there. I wasn't even his real wife. I was the other woman—the woman who would have torn his family apart had his real wife known about me. To the best of my understanding, Cash and Rafe's mother never knew about me. Michael wanted to keep it that way, to protect her from the harsh realities of his world.

If only I had been that lucky.

My broken body still smarted from time to time. There were pieces of me that would never heal from the damage that was done. I knew Michael felt the guilt heavily weighing on his shoulders to this day, but he would never know the full extent of the trauma. I kept those thoughts buried deep inside, never to be shared with anyone. If I did, I would break.

After cleaning up, I poured myself a glass of wine. It was the only thing that helped me sleep, but tonight, I needed an extra glass. As the alcohol slowly worked its way into my system, I found myself unable to stop drinking. It felt good to let loose and forget. That single glass of wine just wouldn't cut it tonight.

With the bottle in my hand, I stumbled up the steps to my room. I clumsily set it on the nightstand as I tore my shirt over my head, haphazardly tossing it in the corner. Next came my bra. It had been digging into my ribs all day, and the relief was stark as I tore it from my body. Stepping out of my shorts, I grabbed the small nightgown from under my pillow and pulled it over my head.

My long hair flowed over my shoulders as I took out the tie. I massaged my scalp, rubbing away the ache from having it pulled tight for so long. Snatching the bottle, I sank down on my bed and took a long sip of the now-warm white wine. The room tilted slightly in front of me, and I imagined Michael in the doorway, smiling at me as he slowly pulled his shirt over his head. As he sank down beside me, I snuggled into his arms, sighing in contentment for the first time in years.

"I missed you."

Windows shattered, tearing me from my sleep. I jolted upright in bed, terrified as I heard boots pounding through the house. I scrambled from my bed, rushing over to the wall safe Michael had insisted I have installed. Terror clawed its way up my throat as I struggled to key in the correct code. I had practiced this a dozen times, but never when I was actually in danger.

I could hear them coming faster now, tearing through the house to get to me. I finally unlocked the box and pulled out the gun. I grabbed the magazine just as the door was flung open. Slamming it into place, I turned just as I was tackled, falling to the side. My head hit the table, making the whole world tilt around me.

I held onto the gun for dear life, but the man on top of me quickly tore it from my hands. It finally occurred to me to scream, but as soon as I did, a large fist slammed into my face over and over until I thought I would pass out.

My head rolled to the side as agony washed over me. I didn't know who they were or why they were here. But that question was solved moments later when the man on top of me leaned down and whispered in my ear.

"Zavala sends his regards."

I sucked in a breath as he grinned down at me. "What?"

"He said to send a message to your husband."

"I—I don't know—I'm not—" I couldn't get out a full sentence to save my life, and then his words hit me. He was supposed to send a message to my husband. "Please," I whimpered. "Please, don't hurt me."

"Your husband fucked Zavala's sister. Now, you're going to pay for his crimes."

My eyes widened at his words just before he tore the pajama bottoms from my body. I screamed and kicked out, but was quickly held down by another man. Fingers grabbed at my top, tearing it from me and exposing my body to all of them. I didn't know how many were in the room and I didn't have time to count as he settled between my legs. His fingers bit at my hips, holding me where he wanted me. I screamed and kicked, trying desperately to get away, but I was powerless to stop what was about to happen.

His attack was brutal. With one hard thrust, he was inside me, killing what little hope I still had in my life. Everything went black around me as I pushed the reality of what was happening from my brain. I wanted to fight, but knew there was no escaping—not when so many of them were here with me.

My body ached as he continued his brutal assault. I closed my eyes and prayed for it to be over. After what felt like hours, his body jerked and he stilled above me. I bit my lip, holding back the whimpers that threatened to spill from me. Tears filled my eyes, spilling from my closed lids and trailing down my cheeks. It was over. It was horrible, but it hadn't killed me.

A sense of relief and trepidation filled me as he climbed off me, smacking me hard across my breasts. It was over, but what would happen now? I opened my eyes just in time to see another man step up to take his place. My heart stuttered in my chest as I watched him lower his zipper and grin as he got to his knees.

"No!" I squirmed, trying to break free. "No!"

But there was nothing I could do. I lashed out, kicking the man in the chest as he tried to get between my thighs. But my efforts were quickly dashed when two other men approached and grabbed my ankles, holding me down for this new threat. I screamed and screamed until a meaty fist slammed into my mouth. Blood pooled and I felt a tooth floating around in my mouth. I gagged on the blood, then turned and vomited as the man entered me.

It hurt worse this time—my body only lubricated by the previous man's semen. I made the mistake of looking up into the man's eyes. All I saw was a mixture of hate and lust. He was getting off on hurting me, and as a tear slipped down my cheek, he bent over and licked me, chuckling as he soaked up my tears.

Over and over, they took me. I shut my brain off, refusing to acknowledge them or let them see my pain. The repeated violations made my insides grow cold, and I prayed for them to kill me, to end the disgust and hate I felt deep in my soul. Each of them waited for a reaction from me, and when I didn't give it, they grew angry, beating me until I cried out.

By the time they were finished, I laid there in a heap, staring at the ceiling. My mind was a blank slate, refusing to acknowledge anything that happened. I could hear them moving around the room, discussing me and what to do next. I didn't care. I just wanted it to be over.

A hand slapped me across the face. I barely felt it through the bruising and swelling from the previous hits. One of them leered above me, shouting something at me, but I didn't hear a thing. I saw his lips moving, saw the anger at my lack of response. I briefly thought that if I wanted to live, I needed to give this man something, but I just couldn't summon the energy or the will to care.

He whipped out a knife, holding it over me. I saw him turn away, and something sparked inside me. I leapt up and ripped the knife from his grip. Stumbling back, I held the knife to my throat, desperate to finally end this. Yet, even as I stared at them, my hand shook. It was one thing to think about dying. It was another to actually plunge the knife into my body.

That moment of hesitation was all they needed. One of them lunged for me, yanking the knife from my grip. A sob tore free from my throat as I was spun around and bent over the bed. I knew what was coming before it happened. Pain tore through my backside and a raw scream left my lips. Shards of agony ripped at my throat as I cried. The terror and torment was worse than ever. Nothing could block the vicious attack from my mind. There was no place for my mind to turn, to escape what was happening.

"Claire!"

I vaguely heard my name called over and over, but I was stuck in hell, unable to escape. My heart raced as sweat clung to me. I lashed out, trying to get them away from me, but it was no use. Fingers touched me everywhere, grabbing at me, doing things to me that made me gag.

"Claire, come back to me."

A sob tore from my throat as arms wrapped around me. Michael's scent enveloped me like a warm blanket, filling me with a sense of peace I rarely experienced.

"It's okay," he rocked me, stroking my hair. "I'm here. He can't hurt you."

But he could. Every night, he was in my dreams. Every night, one of them taunted me and laughed at me. There was no escaping what they did. But it didn't end with their brutal assault on my body. When they were done raping me, the pain dragged on as they took turns beating me and torturing me.

I buried my face in his chest, taking the comfort he was offering. I couldn't push him away, not when I needed him to calm the overwhelming fear raging inside me. I found myself clinging to him, wrapping my fingers in his shirt just to have something to hold onto. Even after five years, I couldn't escape the demons.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he croaked out, still holding me tight. "I didn't know."

I didn't know.

In that instant, I realized that he heard the worst of my dreams. He knew now what I refused to tell him in the hospital. I had kept it from him all these years, and now he knew the worst of it. The shame of what had happened to me still lived deep in my soul, never allowing me to fully recover and move on.

"Claire," he whispered. "Tell me what to do to help you."

I could hear the pain and anguish in his voice. For all that he had done, I knew he never intended for me to get caught in the crosshairs. But there was only so much room in my heart after what happened, and I didn't know how to open up to him and allow him in.

"Baby…please…"

I couldn't speak. I hated that he heard my nightmares. I didn't want anyone to know what had been done to me. It took me years to even be able to go out in public again, and when everyone showed up at the house, I felt like I was on the verge of a panic attack. But I held it together until they left. I prided myself on that. And then it all fell apart. I drank too much to forget, and with alcohol came the worst of the nightmares.

I didn't move from his arms. I stayed with him through the rest of the night, just letting him rock me and brush his hands down my back in a soothing gesture. Slowly, the nightmares faded as the sun started to rise. I was grateful that, for once, I didn't have to face the night alone. As the room brightened, I was all too aware that Michael would see me in the daylight.

He would see the bruises under my eyes from a bad night's sleep. He would see the haggard look on my face that always appeared after the worst of the nightmares. He would see the real me—the one I kept hidden from everyone.

And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.

"Claire," he whispered as I tried to pull away from him. "Talk to me. Tell me…"

"I can't," I answered. "I…Please don't ask me to."

"Okay." He rubbed my back, pressing a kiss to my temple. As he pulled back, I ducked, not wanting to look him in the eyes. But he gripped my chin, forcing me to stop hiding. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You know why," I whispered.

"I would have?—"

I stood, shoving out of his arms. The remnants of my dream were still too raw. I didn't want to talk about it, let alone have his guilt weighing me down. "I need to shower."

He grabbed my arm, spinning me around. I instantly struck out, not even thinking about the fact that he was only trying to help me. My palm connected with his face, and for the first time ever, he looked stricken.

"Don't!" I snapped, my chest heaving as those old feelings overwhelmed me. My skin itched as my dream forced its way back into the forefront of my mind. I turned and raced into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Tearing at my clothes, I turned on the water and stepped underneath, holding back my tears as the hot water rushed over my skin. But it wasn't hot enough to remove the feel of their hands from my body. I turned it hotter, grabbing my loofah to scrub them from my skin.

Tears raced down my cheeks as I scrubbed harder and harder. Images of their hands on me only made it worse. I couldn't get them to leave me alone. No matter what I did, they were always with me.

"Stop." Michael tore back the curtain and shut off the water. "Stop!" He tore the loofah from my hands, throwing it to the ground as he pulled me against his chest. I beat my fists against him, just wanting him to leave me alone. Sobs wracked my body as I fought to escape him, but he held me tighter, refusing to let me go.

I hit him until my body gave out. I cried against his chest, gripping his arms as I did my best to hold myself up. He wrapped his arm around the back of my legs and hauled me up into his arms. I was dripping wet, but he didn't care. He held me as if I was the most precious thing in the world to him, but how could that be when he hurt me so badly?

"You have to tell me," he choked out. "You'll never be okay if you keep it inside."

"I can't."

"You have to. You have to," he said louder, rocking me slightly. "Fuck, get it off your chest and tell me what they did to you."

I didn't want to. I hated to even think about it.

"It'll only get better when you allow yourself to admit what happened. Don't let them hold this power over you."

His words hit me deep inside, forcing me to admit that I wasn't okay—that I hadn't been okay since that day. Five years of telling myself I would be fine—that I was a survivor—did nothing to ease the way my mind constantly tormented me.

"I don't know how many there were…" I admitted. His large hand slowly worked up and down my spine as I recounted the horrors of that night. Luckily, he hadn't been the one to find me. The hospital contacted him after I was admitted, but I didn't let them release that information. I vaguely remembered gripping the nurse's hand and begging her not to tell anyone what had happened.

That was before the pain meds and the surgery. Everything after it was a blur. I only recalled waking up to him by my bed, begging me to forgive him. I was in so much pain that I lashed out, yelling at him to leave me alone. Yet, he returned every day, hoping I would forgive him and let him help me.

When the doctors lowered the pain meds, I lost it. My mind refused to let anyone in. Anger became my friend, and during those days, I let it take over. When I finally pushed him away, it was a relief. My damaged soul couldn't handle the shame of what they had done to me. The outer scars would heal, but the ones on my heart would be there forever.

I hadn't realized I had finished speaking until he shifted and gripped my cheeks in his hands. Instead of pity, I saw his own shame. It was because of his actions that I was attacked, and he knew it. Except, now he understood the full extent of the attack—the hours of pain and fear before they beat me and left me for dead.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he whispered. Tears filled his eyes as he stared at me. Then, he leaned forward and pressed a tentative kiss on my lips before resting his forehead against mine.

For the first time in five years, I let the feelings wash over me. I didn't hide from the fear and the feelings of disgust. I let them take control and I finally let it all out. I flung myself into his arms, crying into his neck like I should have allowed myself all those years ago. At the age of fifty-six, I should have been old enough to know that I couldn't keep these feelings inside. Somehow, I convinced myself that I was better off not sharing my pain.

I could feel his body shaking against mine, and it was a relief to know that I was no longer alone. I didn't have to keep this burden to myself. He was here, and he would help me through it. All those times I told myself that I never wanted to see him again, I was really lying to myself. Unable to face what had happened, I convinced myself I was better off alone.

"What do we do now?" I whispered.

By the shake in his voice, I knew he was not okay. "We'll take it one day at a time. You tell me what you need, and I'll make it happen."

"What if you can't?"

When he pulled himself away from me, I saw the devastation in his eyes, though he tried to hide it. "Then we'll deal with it." He pressed another kiss to my lips, never pushing for more. "You fucking swear to me right now that you'll never push me away again. I know I've fucked up, and I know you haven't forgiven me for that, but we can't get past it if we don't work through it."

I hadn't even tried to process my feelings for him or about what happened. I was angry out of sheer determination to push him out of my life. The fact that he fucked another woman hadn't really entered my mind other than to have something to blame him for. Oddly enough, even though I knew Zavala came after me because of Michael's decisions, I didn't blame him for the attack.

"Claire, you have to promise me. I fucking need you."

I needed him, too. And even though I didn't want to admit it, I finally came to the realization that five years without him had only hurt me. I couldn't go back to a life without him. So, I gave him what he needed.

"I promise."