“It’s my body to infect.”
“Do you really still think that?” He brushed his lips against my ear.
I shivered. “Yes.”
He grinned. “Then, maybe I should put my last name on the other collarbone.”
“That’s not funny.” I moved away.
He caught my hips and brought me back to where I was standing. “That wasn’t a joke.”
I swallowed.
He turned me around.
My view went to the center of his chest, right where he’d carved my name into his flesh. Where the scars on my skin had delicateness to them and the edges flowed smoothly into my skin, his pale scars were thick and rough, puffed up and jagged.
I raised my hand and touched the P. “You. . .didn’t have to do this.”
“I was so angry. I thought you might’ve died in the forest.” He sneered.
“Still. . .” I slipped my fingertips over the H.
His skin warmed under my touch. “I was so full of pain, Phoenix. I could have carved poems in blood all over my chest and stomach, my legs and arms. And it wouldn’t have mattered.”
That hurt me.
“I could have died writing.” He gazed down as I dipped my finger in the sunken center of the O. “But then you sent the package and I knew you were okay, and that it was time to hunt.”
Frowning, I stared at the E. “Cain, I was trying to do the right thing by you, not lure you my way.”
He tenderly touched my chin and lifted my view to him. “Is that what you think?”
“Of course.”
“You missed me. You wanted me to know that you were okay, and that you didn’t hate me.”
My bottom lip quivered. “That’s not true.”
“Some of it is.”
I tried to look away.
He wouldn’t let me. “Admit it. Just once.”
“I read about Stockholm Syndrome. It’s. . .” I blinked. “It’s an emotional response that happens with some hostage victims.”
He moved his hand. “It is.”
“Sometimes. . .the victim could have confusing feelings toward the abuser.” My breathing grew hard and heavy. “Sometimes they think. . .they’re in love and suddenly want to protect the captor.”
“That’s true. And the captor will feel the same way too.”
“And that’s all that has happened between us.” I moved my hands away from his scars. “Stockholm Syndrome.”
Cain grabbed my hands and put them back on his chest. “But, Stockholm Syndrome isn’t a psychological diagnosis.”
I frowned at him.
He let go of my hands. “It’s only a way of understanding why a bond can grow between the prisoner and the captor.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want it.” I spread out my hands on his chest and tried to hide my name, but the letters were too large.
He captured my wrists and moved my hands away. “Love is still love.”
“That’s bullshit. Some love can hurt.”
“Not our love. Our love will never hurt.”
“Cain, I’m literally wearing the scars. You are too.”
“That’s not pain. That’s pleasure and healing.” He gave me a sad smile. “Speaking of scars.”
I widened my eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
Fast, he gripped my hips and lifted me onto the sink.
“Why did you do that?”
He spread my thighs and then looked up at me. This time anger filled his gaze. “After you escaped me, why did you start cutting yourself?”
“None of your business.” I tried to close my thighs.
He wouldn’t let me. “You don’t get to hurt yourself.”
“Why not?” I glared at him. “Only you get to cut me?”
He glared back. “Only me.”
My chest rose and fell like I was running.
“Why did you do it, Phoenix?”
I leaned my head to the side. “What did you dream about?”
His gaze softened. “It’s not important.”
“It is.”
“What did you cut your thighs with?”
I sucked my teeth. “Why did you scream like that?”
He spoke through clenched teeth. “I didn’t scream.”
“You did. It shook the foundation.”
He blinked. “I was loud?”
“And your hands were reaching out for something. And you looked sad and broken.”
He stepped back and turned his view away.
“And. . .” I let out a long breath. “I wanted to hug you.”
His gaze snapped back to me.
“But I couldn’t. I was handcuffed. That fact helped me remember that the Stockholm Syndrome was taking over again and infecting me.”
He chuckled. “Stockholm Syndrome is not a disease, cancer, or some cold.”
“Then, what is it?”
His face went serious. “It just is.”
“Do you at least agree with the fact that Stockholm Syndrome happened to us?”
“I can believe it.” Cain crossed his big arms over his chest. “But that wouldn’t change how I feel and that wouldn’t stop me from wanting you. Every fiber of my body needs to possess you.”
“Well. . .I’m embarrassed by it.” I touched my chest. “And when I was away from you, I just felt cold, numb, and empty. So numb. . .maybe I cut myself to truly feel something.”
“Or maybe you thought you should be punished for how you felt?”
I rolled my eyes. “You think you know me, Cain, but you don’t.”