And I Love You the Most (This Love Hurts 3)

I’ll hide all her secrets away in that safe place. For her and only her.

With those thoughts in mind, I take advantage of the easiness, leaning across the bed and carefully running my pointer under her chin to direct her lips to mine. She obeys without objection, her thick lashes falling as her eyes close. The kiss is gentle and I’m careful of the cut still on her lip, although it’s healed slightly. The bruise on her jaw is still there as well. I’m cautious with every small touch, but not nearly in the same way I have been before.

With the warmth still lingering, I lean back, letting her chin go and watch as she opens her eyes and peers up at me with those gorgeous hues of amber. There’s a fire there, one I recognize and thank fuck it’s there at all. She knows my demons and my sins, but she also knows my pain and that’s quite a different burden to carry.

Delilah

I don’t recognize the person I am or the emotions that whirl inside of me, sinking to the pit of my stomach. I don’t know what I dream of, but I know what I remember when I wake: the door to the cell opening, that click resonating, and then there he is.

Christopher Walsh, my dark knight, the grim reaper, standing in the dimly lit hall one moment, then his arms wrapped around me the next. He engulfs me, kissing my hair and telling me I’m safe, telling me they’re all dead and they’ll never hurt me again.

It’s a moment of true terror, and then just as quickly, a moment filled with relief and love and a debt I can never repay. It’s impossible to describe the crash of reality when I wake up, and he’s hovering over me. Like if he dares to look away, I’d be lost to him forever.

The intensity of it all is at war with everything that’s been embedded into my mind for days.

The simple fact that I was taken because of Marcus, is at war with the desperate need to lie in his embrace forever.

The battle is over with the whisper of a name each time: Christopher.

I can forgive Christopher easily. It’s Marcus I have contempt for. Staring at my hero’s sleeping form, I debate on doing something the logical side of me screams is mad. Still, the intention consumes me.

He has very few things in this old home. It must be from the ’50s, a cookie-cutter cottage without any noteworthy or distinctive architectural details. It’s lacking in maintenance as well as furniture. It’s exactly the type of home I imagine the grim reaper would live in. A barren, cold and empty house. Last night when he left, I’m not proud to admit that I searched for a weapon.

I’ve seen grown men, victims of abuse, break down telling their stories. Only one I spoke with was ever violent, and shortly after he killed himself. Last night, Christopher reacted just as he had. There’s a sense of denial to it all, a fear of facing that reality before a quick draw of a curtain hides it all away and a different personality comes out to play. That’s all it is, though, it’s only a show.

He locked me in this room, and the same fear that washed over me watching a young man attack a social worker who was sitting next to me, hit me at full force. Mental illness comes in many shades. Christopher needs help. He’s not well and that’s a certainty.

I’m not well either, nor in a position to help him.

Still, last night I searched for a gun and instead I found cuffs. Maybe I am truly going mad, because as the soft sounds of Christopher’s steady breathing comfort me, all I can think is that if I could cuff him to this iron headboard, I could talk to him. I could get through to him, I could rip back the curtain and help him in a way he so desperately needs.

For the last hour, it’s all that’s gone through my mind. The plan screams at me, begging me to do it. To slip the metal around his wrists and secure the other end to the iron rail.

I wouldn’t dare broach the conversation with him unhinged. If he’s secure, though, if he can’t react and he’s forced to listen, I think I could get through to him.

I could call him Christopher without him shutting me out, without him running away.

A deep sleep has taken him and all I’ve done is stare at his handsome form, noting how he appears so different. There’s not an ounce of a threat and only a man lies in front of me. There’s no sorrow, no pain. Not a hint of his troubles. If only I could see him like this when he’s awake … if only I could see him smile.