He holds on tighter.
What is it with these people?
“I deserve everything she’s given to me, Sebastian. Let her go,” Asher says calmly, tucking his hands in his pockets. He acts as if this is just another day, but it isn’t. We are face to face for the first time in seven years, and the least he could do is yell at me.
After all, it’s my fault he served six years in prison because I stood trial and said I believed Asher Haven was the man who killed my sister, who beat her senseless, who raped her. I was angry. I was so angry, and it wasn’t right what I did. I know that. I tried to appeal the judge's decision; I tried to make it right, which is why I wrote him in prison, but nothing worked.
My appeal got denied.
And so did any hope of making things right for him.
Yet here is my chance and the last thing I want to do is make it right.
“Let her go,” he orders Sebastian.
“Your funeral,” Sebastian sighs in discontent, lowering me to the ground. “I need you to relax,” he whispers into my ear. “You’re safe here.”
Safe.
What a misconstrued concept. What’s it mean? What am I safe from?
“No one is here to hurt you.”
My feet hit the ground, and I lean against the wall, completely spent. I’m exhausted. I couldn’t fight anymore even if I wanted to.
I give up.
I concede.
“Heather—”
“—Don’t,” I warn Asher, my chin wobbling from the threat of another outburst. God, I want this all to end. Why can’t I feel anything other than complete devastation and anger?
“Do me a favor?” he asks, pushing off from against the wall. He lifts his hand to my face, and I flinch, rearing away from him when I think he is going to hit me. He frowns, drops his hand a few inches, but decides to go for it. His massive, calloused hand cups my jaw, his thumb landing on the apple of my cheek, brushing the heated and wet flesh with the pad of his finger.
As much as I want to enjoy it, I’m scared.
I’m frozen in place, locked in a trance. I know I should jerk away,
slam the door, lock it, and crawl back into bed where it is safe, but I can’t move.
My mind is yelling not to trust him or anyone in this house, but my heart is saying something else: to give an inch to someone, so I can feel a small amount of peace.
That tiny headway should go to Jolie, and while I can relate to her, I don’t have the same history as I do with Asher. After everything he and I have been through, trust is the last thing on the list that I need to worry about with him. That’s going to take forever to build. The thing with Asher, or at least it used to be, was trusting him with your life was simple. No question. If you needed someone, he was there.
Was he ever the person to trust with your heart?
Absolutely not.
And I doubt things have changed.
I take a step back, crossing the threshold of the bedroom, and the space causes his hand to slip away from my cheek. I stare at him from the other side, peering through an invisible barrier that separates us. What is it about a bedroom that makes it seem forbidden? He could easily walk into the room; it’s his house after all.
He doesn’t.
Like typical Asher, he keeps his space from me, and his shoulders sag when his hands drop to his side. He lifts his arms out to the sides and grips the crown molding of the trim. “Please let the doctor check you?” he asks, licking his plump lips with his tongue, wetting them, which causes a sleek shine against the yellow light of the chandelier.
My hand lands on the door handle, and the cool touch of the metal has me inhaling a desperate breath. “What?” I snap. I’m being nasty for no reason. I don’t want to be. I have a lot to figure out and work through, but I’m not mad at him or anyone.