Ruined (Ethan Frost 1)

I can’t say how many times one of Brandon’s friends caught me alone in the stairwell and tried to touch me, just because they thought they could. Because I was easy pickings and completely unprotected.

I’d walked around terrified the rest of sophomore year, had begged my parents to let me transfer back to the high school I’d come from. But my dad was putting his three million dollars to work and he wanted the connections that came with having a daughter at that school. And so I stayed, terrified every day that Brandon or Chad or one of the other guys they ran around with would rape me again, just because they could.

Ethan doesn’t say anything for the longest time. But I can see the rage in his eyes, feel it emanating from his every pore. His jaw is working furiously, his hands clenched into white knuckled fists. But when he finally speaks, his voice is almost normal. If you don’t count the rage-filled resolve that runs through it. “Who is he?”

“What?” I don’t understand.

“The guy who did this to you. What’s his name?”

“It isn’t important. ”

“It is to me. ”

“No,” I tell him. “It’s long over. None of it matters anymore. ”

“Considering you’re still traumatized by what the bastards did to you, I’d say it still matters a whole hell of a lot. ”

“I’m sorry about what happened on the beach. Normally I can handle it better than that. It’s because you were behind me, like he was. I mean, not like he was, obviously. But that’s how it happened. He shoved me face-first into the seat and—”

“Jesus Christ. ” He shoves a hand through his hair, looks like he wants to say something a hell of a lot worse. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry. ”

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. ”

“Neither did you. ” He puts two fingers under my chin, tilts my head up so that I’m once again looking him in the eye. “None of what happened to you is your fault. You know that, right?”

“Of course. ”

His eyes narrow. “Why do I get the feeling you’re only telling me what you think I want to hear?”

“I don’t know. But it’s not true, believe me. It’s not like I think for one second that you wanted to hear any of the crap I just dumped on you. ”

“That isn’t what I meant. ” His words seethe in the air between us, raw and painful and honest. I want to respond in kind, to tell him everything, but there’s still that damn nondisclosure agreement to think about. Plus there’s the fact that I don’t want him to know I sold myself for three million dollars. Somehow I don’t think he’ll understand.

“You need to let it go, Ethan. ”

“I can’t do that. ”

“You have to. I told you because I lost my shit for a minute and I owed you an explanation. But everything we just talked about is in the past. For my own sanity, I left it there a long time ago. It’s the only way I can function. The only way I can live the life I have now. The life I’ve built for myself.

“I need you to leave it there, too. I know it’s hard for you, I know you want to protect me. But going after some guy for something that happened years ago isn’t the way to do that. ”

“What is?” He cups my face in his hands, drops his forehead down to rest on mine. “Because Chloe, baby, I’m about to jump out of my skin here. I don’t know what to do for you. How to help you. How to love you. ”

His words tear through me, rip a hole down the middle of my already cracked defenses. “Just hold me,” I tell him, burying my face in the curve of his neck. “Hold me and don’t let me go. Not tonight. ”

“I won’t,” he says, his breath soft against my temple.

And he doesn’t. Not for a minute. Even after I slip into a fitful sleep, I can feel him holding me. All night long. And for now, for this moment, it’s more than enough.

Chapter Twenty

I drift into consciousness slowly, to the feel of early morning sunlight on my face and the scent of coffee in my nose.

There’s no disorientation at waking in a strange bed, no moment of trying to figure out where I am or how I got here. The second I open my eyes, I know I’m at Ethan’s house. In Ethan’s bed. He brought me to it last night after the temperature dropped so much on the patio that my teeth began to chatter.

Pushing my riot of curls out of my face, I sit up on my elbows and look around at Ethan’s private domain. Last night I’d been too wiped to do anything but curl up with him in bed, but this morning I notice the slate-blue walls. The smoky gray of the comforter I’m lying beneath. The huge painting of a sailboat that takes over a significant portion of one of the side walls.

For some, Ethan’s color choice might be depressing—dark blues and grays with only a few instances of a lighter accent color—but in my mind, it’s perfect. I feel like I’m in the belly of the Pacific Ocean, cradled in the arms of the ever-changing waves. It’s a good feeling, especially considering all that happened last night. And not nearly as violent as the drowning I had so often imagined.