Perfect Rage (Unyielding 3)

But there was no playful cockiness about him now. Intense. Dangerous.

But he was real. And real would always… always… be better than imagined and I’d imagined him a lot.

Every day we were apart, I’d imagined the smell of him with each inhale. The taste of him, the touch, the sound. God, the sound of his voice was enough to send me over the brink and into the abyss of Connor.

My imagination, my dreams, and yeah, the nightmares, couldn’t compare to this, even if he was different, even if I was scared of him.

The mattress dipped as he leaned a knee on it, the other following. I tried to sit up so I could move into him and taste his lips, but he placed his palm on my ribcage and pushed me back down.

“No. Wait for me.”

I’d wait for him. I’d wait forever. And I had a feeling when he left tonight, it would be forever.

His hands paused on the ribbon of my white pajama pants and he scowled. I noticed the immediate change in him as his body tensed, mouth got tight and his chest rose and fell erratically.

Like before, he squeezed his eyes closed, bowed his head then shook it. His hand left me and went to his temple where he bunched his hair in his grip and groaned.

I laid my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat erratically beneath my touch. “Connor,” I said, but he didn’t respond. “Look at me.” He flinched and he was so tense that his legs clamped around me hurt. “Let me help.”

“You can’t,” he said in a strained voice.

“But—”

“Don’t you get it?” he barked. “It’s too fuckin’ late.”

I sucked in air at his harsh, cruel tone that reminded me of the Connor in Colombia.

His eyes flashed open and within the depths was pure rage. And what was worse, I didn’t think he even saw me. It was as if he stared right through me.

My eyes widened when his arm drew back, hand curled into a fist.

Oh, God.

I didn’t move, but closed my eyes, waiting for the pain. For the crunch of bone when his fist plowed into my face.

I heard a loud thud behind my head at the same time as he shouted, “Fuck. No!”

I slowly opened my eyes. Flecks of drywall were on the pillow beside me and Connor’s arm was lowered, as was his head, so I couldn’t see his eyes.

It terrified me seeing him like this, a man who had so easily grinned and teased. Who lived in the present. Who had passionately loved his family and friends. Protected them. This was harder to see than when he’d been on the drug.

He collapsed to the side of me, tatted forearm draped over his eyes. His chest rose and fell in harsh ragged breaths as if he’d run a marathon. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek to the edge of his jaw.

I shuffled onto my side, leaning over him and caught it with the pad of my finger.

“Connor?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Connor,” I begged. I rested my hand on his abdomen. “What’s happening?”

He moved fast, arm moving off his face and then his hand latched onto my wrist and pulled it away from his abdomen.

“Talk to me,” I said quietly.

He scowled and flung my arm away. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He bent, elbows resting on his knees, head cradled in his hands.

“I don’t want to fuckin’ talk, Alina.”

“Okay. Then come back to me.”

His spine stiffened, but he remained where he was as he growled, “I almost hit you.”

I shifted onto my knees, came up behind him then gently lowered my hands onto his shoulders. I hesitated a second to see if he’d throw me off, but he didn’t, so I peppered a trail of kisses across his neck.

“You didn’t,” I murmured. “You won’t.” Although, I wasn’t completely certain of that. “Give us this, Connor.”

He didn’t move.

“You won’t hurt me.”

He hands dropped to his thighs and he lifted his head and when he did, it was slow and methodical. He turned to face me. “Damn it, you don’t know that!” he growled. “You don’t know me at all. And you didn’t fuckin’ know me in Colombia. You fucked a stranger. I was a stranger.”

“No. Connor, no. Even when you didn’t know who you were, I did. I knew. And I know you’d never hit me,” I said softly. “Please. Come back to me.”

I didn’t know how long I waited before he finally sighed, closing his eyes, the lines on his face easing.

He edged back on the bed, moved over top of me. Grabbing the underside of my thighs, he slid his hand down to my calves then yanked so I lay flat on my back.

His hands went to my pajama pants again and he slowly untied the bow. His fingers curled around the waistband and he peeled them off.