Chapter 21

21

Aubree

Islid to the floor beside my bed and buried my face in the covers. As if a dam had broken inside of me, the tears flowed without restraint, without any signs of stopping, and I succumbed to the encroaching tide that demolished all the perfectly stacked compartments inside of me.

It was my fault. I knew the scar was there, and that the stature I’d been given the last five years would have been staring him in the face if he’d slammed into my body, taking from me what I’d have been perfectly willing to give, had it meant freedom in the end. Perhaps a part of me wanted to blow whatever Barbie Doll image he’d conjured in his head right out of the water. I wanted to give him the smallest glimpse of my secrets.

I hadn’t counted on him attempting to breach my defenses. He’d made it clear in the last few days that he’d no intentions of knowing about me or trying to humanize me in any way. I was a caged animal—a stolen prize, from which he hoped to gain.

It was why he’d worn the gloves the first day. Touching skin meant touching the soul, connecting with another person in a way that couldn’t be made pure and chaste again.

In truth, I’d wanted him in that moment. Not just for my freedom. His kiss had surged with passion and anger, fervor and fury, and I’d wanted to be trapped inside that violent storm of confusion. I’d wanted it to crash over me, consume me, and drag me to the depths of whatever darkness it’d recede, because at least in those moments of trying to catch my breath, I’d feel alive. For once, I’d feel a reason to fight my way back.

Michael must have hurt him, too, somehow. I could sense it, feel it seeping into my bones when his fingers had dug into my flesh. In that, we shared a connection. Perhaps Nick and I were opposites in life, as he said, but in pain, we were the same.

Two broken halves, with jagged edges that seemed to fit together in some messed up way.

To hell with the fact that I was a married woman. My husband broke his vows to honor and protect the moment he laid a hand on me, so fuck him. I’d spent seven years locked in a prison of pain, devoid of emotion, and for once, it felt good to feel something. I couldn’t say it was entirely lust, because an undercurrent of ferocity had laced every action—mine and his. In that intensity, though, I’d felt a certain passion, a hunger that I’d never experienced with Michael—or any man, for that matter.

In one moment of weakness, of unabashed bliss, I’d surrendered to the exquisite destruction of Nick’s kiss. My fingers traced my lips, remembering the feel of his mouth on mine.

How easily I’d have given him more. A thought that scared the shit out of me.

After all, the man was like a finely crafted blade—lean, beautiful and dangerous enough to cut me to the bone, if I wasn’t careful.