From the Ashes (Possessed 2.50)

Cold laughter bursts from my chest, but there’s no humor. Nothing’s funny about that accusation. There’s an energy between her and me, something completely unexplainable, almost magical, and hurting her is the farthest thing from my mind.

“You asked me to do a job. By any means necessary, I believe were your words. Get into her life is what you told me.”

“I know,” he agrees.

“Now you’re questioning my integrity?”

“I promised them I’d ask.”

Taking a sip of the too sweet coffee, I think of how best to explain Ash without giving away our own dynamic. “She’s a wreck, you know. Thinks she deserves the worst the world has to offer.” He quietly listens to me. “Her parents confirmed some of her worst fears yesterday. Did they tell you that?”

His look is quizzical for a short second, but I see it. “They just said they worried about who you were.”

“Naturally, you confirmed I wasn’t some maniac, right?”

“Yes, of course.” There’s no conviction in his tone.

My anger is growing by the minute. All of the people that should have protected this woman, that should be protecting her now, seem to have their own agendas where she’s concerned.

“When you called me, you were genuinely concerned about her. What changed that?” He’s caught off guard by my directness.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“You’re worried about her folks, now? Their opinion of me!”

Running an angry hand down his face, Zach looks around to see we’ve gathered a bit of attention. Like I give a fuck. “Let’s go inside and talk,” he suggests, walking away from me.

Following, I ask him, “What’s so fucking bad about the way I treated her yesterday?”

As we enter his office, he finally confesses. “They saw a bruise on her collarbone.” He eyes me as if he knows how I handle my woman.

A smile crosses my lips as I think of the way she explodes in my arms when I restrict her airflow. Maybe one day, she won’t need that to come all over me, but for now, she anticipates it, and as long as she does, I’ll keep fucking doing it.

“Your point?” I won’t tell people what she needs to get off.

“You gonna make me ask it?” he snaps. Obviously not wanting to come out and question if I’m hurting her. Realistically, it’d be safer for him if he didn’t.

“You hurting that girl?” he finally asks after I don’t answer.

“Hurting?” I roll the word over in my mind—she’s not complained. “I guess that depends on a person’s perspective.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!” He throws his hands in the air, exasperated with my non-compliance.

“It means that, yeah, I fucking hurt her. And she begs for more every time.” When he attempts to say something, my tone deepens. “Am I abusing her, though? Fuck, no. And you, ya rat bastard should know better than that. Anything I do to her she asks for.”

He’s like a fish, his mouth gaping open and closed before he finally finds his words. “All right, then. I’m done. Don’t need to know anymore.”

After a quiet moment, I tell him, “She’s hurting, man. Bad.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Yes.” I won’t lie; she is.

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

“Will she?”