My mind ran amok with sexual scenarios. Blindfold me again? Tie me up?
I know.
The one thing he never let other women do.
A blow job.
My mouth watered at the thought of kneeling before him. Of submitting to him, but ultimately controlling him.
“I like a man who is decisive.”
He laughed quietly.
Leaving me lying on the backseat, he stumbled a little as he stood upright outside the car.
My heart deflated and I scrambled into a sitting position. The world swam for a second, before righting itself. “Wait, Art?”
He ducked again, his eyes connecting with mine. “What?”
Leaning forward, I grabbed his hand and looped our fingers together. “Are you okay? Truly?”
He squeezed my grip, all while trying to untie me from him. His eyes skittered from mine, doing what he did in the past—hiding things from me. I hate that he’s so good at that.
A distance that hadn’t been there before sprang up. It hovered like a warden, overseeing every spoken word and weighing them with meaning.
Managing to free himself, he said gruffly, “I’m fine.”
I shook my head. “No, you’re not.” Shuffling higher, my voice grew demanding. “What happened to you?”
He ignored me, backing away from the vehicle.
My pulse rose. Terrible conclusions filled my head. “Arthur Killian, you tell me right now. I’m done with you keeping things from me.” My voice softened, but my anger didn’t fade. “You already keep so much. Secrets upon secrets. Concerns upon concerns. You’re not alone anymore. How many times do I need to tell you that?”
When only silence replied, I slouched against the leather. “I want to help you but I can’t unless you let me in.”
You didn’t let me in in the past. You didn’t let me console you or brainstorm a solution to stop your abuse.
My hands curled at the thought of how different things could’ve been if he’d confided in me or my father—if he’d trusted others to help him.
“You can’t keep hiding behind walls, Art. Not anymore.”
He ducked, his knees creaking under his large bulk. “I’m not hiding. And you can’t push me to discuss things I’m not ready to.”
“Just like you won’t talk about that night?”
He stiffened. His nostrils flared. “I told you why.”
“You want to be behind closed doors. But why? I know what happened. Let me tell you so you can—”
He shot upright, staggering against the Mercedes and grabbing the roof for support. “It’s so damn simple for you, isn’t it?” He bared his teeth. “Can’t you stop and think for just one second how this is for me? I’m the asshole. I’m the fucking murderer. Is it so wrong of me to pretend that you’ll still want me if we talk about that night? Is it so fucking weak of me to ignore it so I can keep you for a tiny bit longer?”
I froze.
His green eyes locked on mine.
We stopped breathing.
He’s completely clueless.
He was more screwed up than I feared. What had his father done to him all those years ago? How had he been so brainwashed and blinded?
“Arthur. It wasn’t like that. You don’t have to ignore or pretend—”
Holding up his hand, he snapped, “Stop it. Just once in your life, stop trying to fix me. I know what I did and I know I can’t ask for forgiveness.” Breathing hard, he winced through a wave of pain. “Just like I can’t ask forgiveness for lying in a fucking bed with a damn concussion while you were being tormented.”
I sat straighter, gathering my gown of bedding. “A concussion? So you aren’t okay! You’re lying to me about how bad—”
“That’s not the fucking point, Cleo! Goddammit, don’t you see? What happened that night was because of me. And what happened now is because of me. It’s all because of me.” He punched himself in the chest. “That’s the shit-awful truth.”
So much torment. So much incorrectly harbored guilt.
This poor man who I loved more than anything was festering in shame that wasn’t his to bear. “You’re so wrong,” I whispered. “You’re killing yourself by not seeing the truth.”
He ran his hands through his disheveled hair. “Not seeing the truth?” He pointed at my blood-smeared cheeks and rust-daubed chest. “You’re drenched in blood and there was a corpse in the Clubhouse. They made you watch while they killed someone. They scarred you physically as a kid and now emotionally as an adult. I can guess the rest, Cleo, and I don’t fucking like it. You can’t hide things from me—you’ve never been able to hide things from me.”
Crap, he’s good at guessing. Always had been.
My temper overflowed. “No—never like you, of course.” I slapped the billowing blankets. “I’ve never been able to hide—not like you. I don’t have your talent. I could never compete with the Great Secretive Art.”
He shook his head. “Are we seriously having a fucking argument? Here?”
“You started it!”
“You won’t let things go!”
“You won’t let me tell you the truth!”
“You’re just trying to push me away because of what I did!”
“Ah!” I grabbed my hair. “You’re impossible!”
Pain slammed into me, reminding me my temper might want to fight but my body definitely didn’t.