Breaking the Beast (Seven Ways to Sin 5)

“No,” I said quietly. “I didn’t.” I leaned toward him. “But everyone has things happen to them that they don’t deserve. I think you know that.”

Jacques was quiet for a long time, and I began to worry that I’d pushed too hard again, gone too far. But finally, he started to speak:

“I have no memory of my parents. They were both junkies, you may have heard that already. My father died, my mother left. She left me with her sister and never came back. My aunt didn’t like children, she resented having to care for me, a strange, sensitive boy. I cried too much. It gave her headaches. She thought I should be tougher. So when I cried, she beat me. I was only three.”

I drew in a sharp intake of breath. Jacques smiled mirthlessly. “Bernard was my only friend back then,” he said. “He was my protector against the other, bigger boys until eventually, I was strong enough to protect myself. But I could never protect myself against her.” Something flickered across his face, a shadow of the scared, unloved boy he had once been, and I felt the strongest desire to hold him in my arms, to give him the comfort he had been denied when he’d needed it so badly. “I left as soon as I was able to, and I’ve never gone back.”

He stared into the empty fireplace for a long time, until I began to think he was finished, that that was all I was going to get out of him. “You said you married too young,” he said finally. “I was older than you were when I married Agatha, in years, at least, but emotionally, I was still too young. I wasn’t ready. I was still running away from my past. I went...down a dark path. Alcohol, drugs, you name it, I’ve done it. But nothing could make me forget what had happened to me. Eventually, Agatha ran out of patience, and she left. I don’t even blame her, at least not anymore. I was a mess, and she was right, I was going to drag her down with me.”

He looked at me. “I am sorry, about earlier,” he said. “And I do owe you an explanation. All my life, I’ve had these...episodes. Panic attacks, I suppose. For a while, wrestling kept them at bay. Then alcohol, and then the drugs. But eventually, nothing worked. They came, daily sometimes, and I was powerless to resist them.”

I held my breath, afraid that if I made a sound, the spell would break, and he would stop talking.

“It scares me, when it happens. I can’t control myself, I can’t breathe. I break things. I hurt people.” He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “That’s why I made you leave, earlier. I was afraid if you stayed, I would hurt you.”

He took a deep breath, then let everything out in a rush: “I’m not a good man, Isabel, deep down. I try to hide it with philanthropy. I invest in ethical business ventures; I give to charity; I start charities. But none of it changes the fact that underneath it all, I’m broken somehow. Incomplete.”

“You’re not,” I said. “You know how I can tell that you’re a good man?” Jacques didn’t answer. “Because you’re surrounded by good men who care about you, who protect you. They see you for what you can’t, and they love you.”

I drew in a deep breath, the counselor I had once been taking over. “You experienced a great deal of trauma when you were very young, Jacques. That has long-lasting consequences for anyone. Of course you have panic attacks, anyone would if they went through what you did. But it doesn’t mean that you’re broken, it just means you need help. You can’t be too proud to ask for it. I can help you, if you want.”

Jacques mumbled something that sounded like “No one can help me.”

He stood suddenly. “You should take your bath,” he said. “The water is getting cold.”

I studied him: dark, brooding eyes, powerful arms, scars. Once, I had found those scars intimidating, but now I saw them for what they were: an attempt to make his outside match how he felt inside, broken, twisted, repaired. There was far more to this man than met the eye. I made a decision.

Holding his gaze with my own, I rose to my feet. “Let it get cold,” I said, and let my bathrobe drop to reveal my bare form beneath.

Jacques said nothing, but his eyes smoldered as he took me in. Slowly, he stood, moving toward me in a few quick strides. One hand reached out, toward my face, and he softly, reverently, touched one of my curls, a silent question on his face.

“Isabel,” he said, his voice a low rumble that made my toes curl in anticipation. “It’s been so long. I’m warning you now, I won’t be able to be gentle.”