Beautifully Broken

I take hold of the hem… but then pause.

Damian tilts his head. “Should I leave?”

I shake my head quickly, not wanting to be alone. Closing my eyes, I pull the long-sleeve shirt over my head. Damian holds a t-shirt out to me, and I take it, quickly yanking it on. The fabric falls to just above my knees.

“Are you going to sleep in the jeans and boots?” he asks.

I take off the boots and then shimmy out of the jeans. Standing in front of Damian in only a shirt and panties makes me feel way too vulnerable, and I begin to fidget.

“Get in bed,” he commands softly. I sit down on the edge of the bed and then scoot back.

When he takes off his shoes and socks, I somehow manage to squeeze the words out. “You’re going to sleep by me?”

“Yeah, move over.”

When Damian yanks his shirt off, my breath slams into my throat. Half of his chest is covered with the same tribal marking I’ve seen on his arm and from his shoulder. The tattoo spreads over his chest as if a claw has ripped his flesh off.

He throws the covers back and sits down, then leans back against the headboard, stretching his legs out over the mattress.

I make sure there’s plenty of space between us before I lie down on my side, facing him.

We stare at each other in the darkness, and then he murmurs, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken you out.”

Shaking my head, I bunch the covers in a fist.

Seconds pass, and then Damian brushes some hair from my face. “Sleep. You’re safe.”

I listen to his breathing, focusing on nothing else as the familiar emptiness creeps over me.

My eyes grow heavy from being physically and emotionally drained, and soon I lose the fight against sleep, just like I’ve lost every other fight in my life.

I wake up in the exact position I fell asleep in, but there’s something heavy on me. Somehow Damian has folded his body around mine. I lie with eyes wide open, not knowing what to think about this.

“How do you feel?” he mutters into my hair, sounding a little angry.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Damian lets go of me, and getting up, he grabs his shirt, socks, and boots and then leaves.

I pull the covers over me and stretch my body out, going back to sleep.

I finally drag myself out of bed around noon, then take a quick shower before I head downstairs.

When I walk into the kitchen, Damian turns from where he’s standing by the back door. I feel his eyes on me.

Only when I’m done making myself some coffee do I hear him leave. Good, I need the silence. I can’t deal with anything right now.

The backdoor’s still open, and I go sit on the top step, sipping the coffee while my eyes scan over the yard.

It’s hard to suppress the memories again. I keep smelling the urine and vomit. I keep hearing the lock clicking open. I keep feeling them, not the punches and kicks – but them groping me. I feel them inside me, and it makes everything in me wither with disgust.

I feel filthy.

“I’m heading out for an hour. Will you be okay on your own?” Damian suddenly asks.

Glancing over my shoulder, I nod. “Sure.”

“Call me if you need me.”

I nod again, then watch as he walks out the front door.

Letting out a sigh, I stand up and place the empty mug in the sink. I close the back door before I head upstairs so I can shower.

Reaching the hallway, I glance up and noticing the door to Damian’s study is open, curiosity gets the better of me.

I sneak up and, stepping inside the office, I take it all in – the maps on the walls, the laptop, the phones, the cabinets, and then I see it – the camera and memory cards.

My body shudders from the sight.

At first, I only stare at the three memory cards, then I step closer, and my hand trembles as I reach for them. They’re marked from one to three.

I open the laptop and press a random button. The screen lights up, and then my blood turns to ice.

The screen is frozen on my face. There’s blood, so much blood. My eyes skip to the other person on the screen, and I see Steven’s revolting face. A strangled whimper pushes its way up my throat as darkness closes in on me.

“Shit, Cara!” I jump back as Damian moves in front of me, blocking my view of the screen. He slaps the laptop shut, and I watch his shoulders heave heavily as he breathes. “Why the hell did you come up here?” he snaps.

He never raises his voice at me – never.

I don’t think. I just turn and run.

I run from the room that holds my pain and race blindly down the stairs. I keep going straight out the front door as if I can actually outrun the trauma.