She almost left. Knew it would be better. But she’d reached a turning point, and had one last shot at getting him to break. Open up to her. Give her a chance to let her love him. In this room, tonight, the demons needed to be sprung.
“No.”
A growl rose from his throat. “Not fucking around, Gen. It’s not safe here.”
“I don’t want to be safe from you.” She glanced pointedly at the bag. “Nightmare?”
The pain carved in his face made her want to weep, wail, leave. But she stayed, swearing to see it out to the ugly end, no matter what the result. They owed each other this much. “Yeah. I get them now and then, so I prefer to work it out of my system. Alone.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. You’ve been alone too long.”
“Not up for this now. Go back to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“What if I don’t want to talk?”
He muttered a vicious curse. She dropped her gaze and watched his iron-hard erection stretching his shorts. “I don’t think you want to talk either.”
“Don’t. I’m not safe right now.”
She took a step closer. “There’s that word again. Safe. Do we need to be safe from each other? Safe from the world? Why don’t you tell me what you really want and cut through all this exhausting bullshit?”
She shivered at the barely civilized gleam in his eyes. “I want you to get your ass upstairs and away from me. I’m hanging by a thread here, and if I snap, I’ll hurt you.”
Gen stretched out her open arms, palms up. “Every time you run from me, or lock me out, you hurt me. What was the nightmare about, Wolfe? I know it was bad. How bad?”
She heard his teeth grind. “Bad. Nothing you need to hear. You wanna fuck? Fine, go wait for me upstairs and I’ll give you what you want.”
She didn’t flinch. Heard the pain and desperation in his voice. Gen stood her ground and dug deep. “Tell me about the bad. The nightmares. Does it have to do with the bands over your wrists you wear day and night? The ones you touch constantly, as if reminding yourself you didn’t die?”
The shock in his eyes destroyed her. He blinked, staring at her as if she was about to attack, so she softened her voice and took a tiny step closer, arms still reaching out. “Every time you refuse to share it with me, you give the memory more power. It gets darker, and more evil when you don’t give it light. You’re already a survivor. What’s the nightmare about?”
A fragile thread snapped, and suddenly he turned into a wild thing, barely recognizable as human. Pupils dilated, he roared and attacked the bag, as if he wanted to attack her. He kicked and punched and hit in a rage, but Gen never moved, never blinked, letting him empty out the swirling mess until he was drained. “Get out.”
“No. Tell me about the nightmare.”
A keening sound broke from his lips. He ripped off the gloves and tossed them on the floor. She watched while he got dragged into the past, faced the memories in front of him, and finally talked.
“My mother ran out of drugs. Was so high for so long she couldn’t function anymore. She wasn’t even there; it was just some shell that used to pass for my mother. The men wanted more money for drugs. That night, I was going to run. I had everything planned, but they came in my room.” He closed his eyes. Sweat dripped down his brow. “They raped me. Beat me. And when it was over, I knew I was already dead. Just like my mother.”
She never paused, pushing him further, certain she’d die with him by the end of the story. “What did you do, Wolfe?”
His mouth opened and closed. He opened his eyes and gazed vacantly at the wall, his body shaking slightly. Then he slowly reached down, tugging the wristbands off. Horror washed over her. The scars were deep and dark, a crisscross of slashes with no obvious pattern marking the skin. “Took the knife. Needed to end it. Sawed at my wrists over and over. Waited to die.”
Her cheeks felt wet but she ignored them, focused on forcing out the rest of the story, festering like a live infection that was slowly killing him. “But you didn’t die. What happened?”
“Passed out. So happy. Thought I was free. But I woke up in the same bed. Wrists bandaged. Blood everywhere. Not sure how long I was out, or what happened. I got up, looked outside, but no one was there. My mother was gone. Rooms were empty. I left.”
“Where did you go?”
“Walked. Walked forever. Slept in the woods. Waited to die. Don’t remember much of those first few days. I found a diner and asked for food, and they gave it to me. I stole. I found places to sleep. I stayed low. Finally I met two other boys like me. They showed me how to survive. Beat up patsies for their stuff. Kept away from cops and shelters. See, it was all a game at first. I figured I’d die eventually, either in a knife fight or jail. I never did though. The days kept passing, and I got used to existing again. But when I looked at my wrists I remembered that night. So I started covering them up. Not seeing them. Pretending it didn’t happen. Refusing to remember.”
Every part of her body ached and burned to take him in her arms, cry, hold him. To finally know the truth, yet feel so distant from him ripped at her soul. He was slipping away from her, inch by inch, and in sheer desperation, she crossed the room and grasped his shoulders.
Those vacant eyes filled up with emotion. A wildness that made her dig her nails into his skin and shake him with the last ounce of her strength.
“But you did remember. It happened, and you survived. You’re here now, with me.”