Wrong Kind of Love

I drop my towel, and Jude looks away like he has a sense of morality. The angry part of me wants him to feel guilty when he sees the state of my body. I want him to feel guilt, but then again, I don’t because I don’t want to see any false good in him. Some of his small acts lead me to believe there’s a sliver of redeemability somewhere in him despite so much evidence to the contrary. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking born of desperation.

He doesn’t move as I dress, doesn’t say a word. He just sits there, looking contrite and beaten down, and it pisses me off. He’s not the victim here.

“Did you want something?” I ask, wanting to tell him to go fuck himself.

The muscles in his sharp jawline tighten before his dark green gaze lifts to mine. There’s so much emotion behind them it makes me uneasy. “I didn’t ask to be in this situation any more than you did.”

Oh, that statement burrows beneath my skin like a parasite. “Yes. Poor you, Jude. At least you weren’t getting cut up.” I turn away. I don’t know why I’m even getting into this with him; the man is a psycho.

The bed creaks, heavy footfalls cross the floor, then Jude’s large hand lands on my shoulder, spinning me around to face him. Anger flits through his eyes, but it no longer scares me. “I’m fucking sorry, Tor.”

Sorry. He’s sorry that his guy didn't do exactly as he was instructed? My head spins with the confusion of it all. Him putting a gun to my head, then drying my hair and giving me his bed only to turn around and order someone else to defile and mutilate me.

“You told him to do it,” I whisper.

His brows knit in a slow shake of his head. “I put a gun to his head and told him I’d blow his motherfucking brains out if he touched you.”

Tension grows between us, and then Jude’s hand slips from my shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing mine. I search his eyes for something—anything that I can hold onto. And why the hell I’m I so desperate to believe he’s not awful. For a moment, I sense that he’s almost as conflicted as I am. Like he’s fighting something deep and dark. And then, like a switch has flipped, the softening expression on his face is replaced by cold indifference.

On a shake of his head, he steps away, not bothering to close the door behind him when he leaves the room. A weird sense of loneliness winds around my heart as his footfalls disappear down the hall. I shouldn’t want Jude near me—I absolutely shouldn’t feel this hollow feeling when he leaves. I’m not sure if it’s survival or stupidity drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame, but whatever it is, one thing is certain, if I get too close, I will get burned.

I spend the rest of the day in Caleb’s room, wanting to be as far away from anything Jude as I possibly can. Caleb tries to explain football to me, then asks me a thousand never-ending questions about England, and I revel in how easy it is to talk to him—forgetting for a while that we aren’t just friends hanging out and I’m their prisoner. No, I’m Jude’s prisoner because I refuse to put Caleb in the same bracket as his older brother. There’s too much good in him.

The sunlight outside the barred windows eventually fades, and the dark of night eventually creeps in. Caleb turns down the TV volume and makes his pallet on the floor before turning off the light. The hum of yet another football game lulls me to sleep, but instead of being greeted by dreams, I’m plunged into dark nightmares of rough hands and sharp blades. The panic galloping through my chest subsides when the familiar, woodsy scent of Jude’s cologne wraps around me, chasing out the nightmares. His strong arms wrap around me. They feel so real that I wake, only to realize I’m actually being lifted from the bed.

“Seriously?” Caleb chuckles. “Man, this is messed up.”

“Shut the fuck up, Caleb.” The soft glow from the TV is just enough that I catch the stern glare Jude shoots his brother before he carries me into the hall.

I know I shouldn’t revel in the disturbing sense of comfort his warm chest offers, but I can’t help it. He feels like my condemnation one minute and my salvation the next, and it makes no sense. How can a dangerous man—a man I rationally know I should fear—feel safe? Because he’s never actually hurt me. Because he didn’t order that man to hurt me. “What are you doing?” I mumble.

“You’re not sleeping in my brother’s bed.”

And I have no idea what to make of that because I slept in Caleb’s bed for three days.