His Pretty Little Burden: Chapter 43

I DON’T REMEMBER FALLING asleep, but as I jolt from slumber, I’m immediately aware that I’m wet between my thighs. The awfulness of that has me whining softly into the mattress before I even crack my eyes open. I fell asleep for however many minutes or hours, but in that time, my mind was unable to watch over my body.

When I’m asleep, my body is alone.

And now I’m wet.

Why am I wet?

What does that mean?

Curling on my side, the agony in my bones, in my muscles, forces winces through the gaps between my deep hoarse moans. ‘I’m wet.’ I burst open with shame. ‘I’m alone and wet between my legs. Oh, God, why am I wet?’

‘You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.’ His voice is dark and husky, carrying across the room. He isn’t close, and I feel our distance like literal torture. His skin is a blanket that dowses the prickling flesh I’m wrapped in. Flesh that doesn’t feel nice, doesn’t seem to fit my bones anymore.

It.

Doesn’t.

Fit.

I sob, strangled. ‘I couldn’t control my body. I fell asleep. What did I do? I don’t want to be fucking wet. This isn’t my body. It feels horrible.’ I groan, hating the sound of my own voice because it reminds me of how useless it was to help me. To call for help. To scream my pain. To fight back.

Opening my eyes, I feel the burn, the friction of life and light and trauma like sandpaper chaffing me. I stare across the bedroom, fixing my arid eyes on Clay’s fists. He’s sitting on the black leather chair, watching me. His frame is a solid statue of angry, tight muscles, both hands clenched to the point of bloodless intensity.

‘I’m wet,’ I say again, desperate for his outrage, needing him to be sickened too. To acknowledge that I’m wrong. So wrong.

Training my gaze to his piercing blue eyes, I shake my head through my utter revulsion, betrayal rushing the length of my tongue as I feel a pull to ask him to touch me, hold me, and I hate that desire just as much because that need was built with lies. He lied to me. I lied, too. We both formed this alias, this relationship, based on ulterior motives, but I can’t seem to focus on the deceit when the very flesh holding me together feels so horribly wrong. ‘I don’t like the way my skin feels.’

‘Your skin is perfect. Your body is safe.’ He rises to his feet, walking over to my bedside, and I roll onto my back when he hovers over me. The ends of the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt—rest in the middle of his thigh. ‘With me.’ His eyes lock on mine, assessing me, reading me. Then he steps back and holds his hand out for me to take. ‘Come. I’ll show you.’

When I place my much smaller hand in his, I catch sight of red stains on the cuff of his shirt and the sight, meaning, implication stirs something inside me, something vengeful. My eyes dance around the dried blood. Around the crimson pattern. It’s big enough to imply the blood is someone else’s and that someone else is probably not alive.

He cuts into my thoughts. ‘I killed them, little deer. They can’t hurt you.’

My eyes widen at the word them. Not him or Lee or a someone—them. A strained whimper forces its way up my throat as my eyes stare at the blood on his cuff representing so much more than a stain.

‘Don’t be sad for them,’ he hisses through his teeth, and the noise startles me. My eyes find his, find them twitching with rage. Unleashed for the first time. A real smouldering pit of fury. Not practised. ‘Don’t you dare give them a moment of your sorrow, Fawn.’

Them.

My brothers.

I blink over and over, trying to digest the information.

Through the constructed despair, the societally learnt reaction to the news of their death, I feel something stronger, something sickening and happy… I wince at it.

That’s not a crumb.

Clay breaks my focus when he drops his hand and strides away. ‘Bolton will be outside. You may not leave until I come for you.’ He moves towards the wooden door with the kind of rigidity that should terrify me, warn me, but I leap from the mattress to chase after him.

‘No. Where are you going?’

‘You have pity for them!’ He whirls to face me, and my brain tells me to shuffle backwards under his predatorial gaze, but my heart tells me to fall at his feet. ‘I know you need me right now, sweet girl. But you have pity. For. Them. I need to leave before I scare you. I’m not in control tonight.’

My eyes gloss over. ‘I’m not—’

He stalks towards me and grabs my face the way he does when he needs to press his point, but his fingers don’t burn when they sink into my cheeks. His body’s heat doesn’t deter mine. It calls me. Coats me. Relieves.

Consumes me.

He glowers, but it isn’t for me. ‘I wanted to protect you from this. And I will. From your father who gifted you this trauma, who saw to it that he broke you. That is what he does, Fawn. He did it to Cassidy. He did it to Konnor. I don’t regret keeping this from you. Somethings you don’t need to know. Whether you fight me on this or not. Whether you despise me for what I do. What I have done. I will still do it. I can’t help the way I am. But if the choice is between your understanding, your affections for me, or protecting you—Christ. I will always choose to protect you. I will—’

Choose me?

I shove him away.

Only to then lunge at him. Cupping his tense jaw, which pulses angrily beneath my palms, I crush my mouth to his as he growls his sentiment into my lips.

His muscles relax. Clay’s arms circle my body entirely, banding, then lifts me until I am on my tippy toes on his shoes. My entire being hums, and for a moment, my flesh, my thighs, and my soul aren’t trapped in that room. Aren’t stalling in the recall of it all. It has been interrupted by his body.

His skin soothes.

Like the water.

Like the depths of the pool did yesterday, coating me in fluid movements and comfort and protecting me from the sun and air. He does that.

Protects me.

I break our kiss and take his hand, nodding that I’m ready for what he has to show me. His eyes narrow. A strange yet potent feeling fills my body with enough strength to follow him over to the mirror.

As soon as I’m faced with my reflection I want to hurl. I lock my jaw. Tighten my lips. Squeezing my eyes shut, I concentrate on the sensation of air rushing in and out of my nose. I can’t stand the sight of her.

‘I’m going to take this shirt off,’ he says, and I turn my head to chase the sound of his deep, husky voice. ‘You can keep your eyes closed if you need.’ His fingers glide up my side, hiking the material of the shirt up as he goes. The air touches my skin, making it crawl. I moan from within my chest, squirming under the uncomfortable sensation. ‘Lift your arms.’ I do as he asks, and the shirt comes off completely.

Wrapped in disgust, too wrapped in it to think about much else, my eyes stay closed as I gasp his name, ‘Clay.’ I shield my body with my arms, digging my fingers into the flesh at my sides. ‘Talk to me. I need to hear your voice. Please.’

‘You’re the bravest girl I have ever met.’ He pries my hands from around my naked body. ‘After everything you have been through, I thought you would shut down, but you’re still here, and you still trust me. You know I lied to you. I lied about the recording. I lied about your father. You know this now. But you still trust me.’

‘Because I’m dumb.’

‘Because you’re brave.’

His front touches my back as his fingers coast down my arms to where my hands dangle by my sides. ‘It takes courage to trust what you feel inside despite what the world shows you. You could have tried to escape. Tried to get away from me. But you know why I did it. You know.

‘I was being your thorns, little deer. And I’m not going to pretend to understand what you’re going through. For once, I need you to tell me what you need, sweet girl.’ His fingers entwine with mine, and he guides them slowly across my stomach, the tips brushing my skin. I feel it…

My breath hitches.

The gentle touch scolds. Hot. Prickling. Unnatural. I squeeze my eyes together harder, forcing them to stay like that, fending off the sensation.

‘This is your body,’ he states, his timbre twisted and rough. Covering mine, his fingers cup between my thighs. ‘I want to worship you. Every day. Let me show you your pretty body.’ When he pushes my middle finger between my lips, he uses his to work it against the internal soft flesh. I expel a soft sob. ‘Clay.’ Nausea hits me when the walls grasp at our fingers. They seem to overwhelm me, muscles working without conscious effort. It’s not my body. ‘Clay.’ I groan his name, the tone a desperate plea to stop or not to. I don’t know which. ‘Clay, please.’

‘This is your body. I’m here.’

I drop my head back on his chest, staring at the black abyss of my eyelids. I try to breathe. To concentrate on him. Not me. Not my body. ‘You’re wet because your body is begging for pleasure. It’s looking after you, sweet girl. There is nothing prettier than when you come, than when you enjoy your body. When you live in it. When you accept it.’

I lick my lips as they grow drier with each inhalation. Our fingers slip in and out of my pussy easily, and the sensation is heightened with no visual stimulation to draw me from the feeling. My mind homes in on two things.

His voice filling my head.

Our fingers working inside me.

I suddenly want more, balancing on the cusp, on a teasing edge. My finger is so short and small. I pull it out and place my wet hand over his, pushing his in further. I take control, scooping my finger against his.

‘Now, open your eyes,’ he says, his breath cascading along the skin on my throat, tussling my hair. I open my eyes to my reflection. My man is behind me. His fingers are inside me with mine over them. ‘Do you see what I see?’ He kisses my hair. ‘Tell me what you want, Fawn. I’ll give it to you. Anything. Everything. Just name it. Do you want more revenge? The cop? Your foster mother? Do you want the world to fear you?’

I stare blankly at the naked blonde in the mirror with her skin flushed from arousal. Feel his fingers working my muscles gently. Hear his heavy passionate breathing.

Then I whisper, ‘I want someone to love her.’

I watch as my eyes well up, blurring the edges of my vision, making the girl in the mirror dissolve within the pools. Dissolve and appear more visually accurate to the life she has lived; the one she has barely existed in.

Like nothing.

No one’s choice.

Is it too much to ask?

Fuck! It’s too much to ask!

There isn’t enough moisture left in her eyes, the need to cry a throbbing sensation. She has cried too much. ‘I want someone to love her!’ I say again, bursting bright red and shaking. He pulls his fingers from inside me and turns me to face him, cupping my cheeks.

I sob those soundless noises and shed those dry tears. ‘No one loves her.’ My voice wobbles, emotions forcing my feet backwards, desperate for space. His hands slip from my face. He would have never allowed me this wide breadth before, but he is now. ‘No one has ever loved her, Clay. I pretended for so long that Benji did. That my mum might have. That maybe if my dad just saw me, just spoke to me, I mean. I can be funny, right? I can be interesting? I’m—’

‘I love her.’

My eyes fly open. I slap my hand over my mouth, shaking my head against the tight grip, my mind and body and soul unable to process what he said. Unable to accept it. Not now. Not after all the lies and betrayal, a perpetual downpour of deceit.

The words play in my mind. ‘I love her.’ Has anyone ever said that to me? Ever? My mum must have… surely? ‘What did you say?’

My reaction causes his jaw to pulse, causes torment to fill his dark, dangerous eyes. ‘I love you,’ he says again. ‘And I want to love you so fucking hard there is no room for the past. Or the pain. And I will, sweet girl. I won’t stand by and allow you not to like yourself when what I see is… spectacular.’

No. I crane my neck, searching his eyes for the truth lying below the surface. The truth. But there is too much emotion filling me right now. My heart strains to balloon for this broken soul, petrified to stone, unable to pump hard within a crushed body. It wants to. God, it wants to believe him. ‘You love her?’

‘I love you.’

Someone loves you, Fawn.

I shake my head slowly. ‘No.’ My throat tightens with those dry contractions. ‘No. You can’t.’

My head moves violently from side to side. No. You can’t. Not you. Not the most impressive man in the world. ‘You’re just saying it. You have seen the absolute worst of me! You have seen all the flaws. You can’t. I don’t believe it. I’m just your burden. Your pretty little burden. I’m—’

‘I didn’t see any flaws, little deer. I saw you tearing down the middle. I saw you being mauled by life. I can’t rip those fuckers from your mind, but I will rip them from this world. All of them.’ His eyes blaze. ‘I did. I will be your thorns, sweet girl. Your future is with me. You’re Cosa Nostra royalty. Do you know what that means?’

I blink ahead because amidst the horror of the past two days, in the middle of all this trauma, he is saying everything I have ever dreamed of. They are the worst words to associate with this feeling, with this dissonance, self-hate, and the words that I most needed to hear.

To believe them, though.

I can’t.

Can I?

After all I have endured, believing would be like jumping from a tree the moment I was gifted wings. Not trying them out. Or growing into them. Just diving headfirst and hoping they fit. They hold my weight. The weight of my past.

The whiplash of this decision wraps around me. I can’t grapple with what to feel or say or organise in my mind because it’s too much.

When I don’t answer, his deep, commanding voice rumbles, ‘It means you aren’t ordinary, sweet girl.’ I relent my internal debate, finding his eyes—piercing, fierce blue vortexes of sentiment. ‘You’re powerful.’

I nod slowly.

‘It’s in your blood, that power.’

My mouth opens as his words sail around me, my chest pumping harder to draw in air.

‘You’re not my pretty little burden, Fawn.’ He lifts my chin. ‘You’re my pretty little queen.’