Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart 3)

“Don’t lie to me, Maxon Chambers.”

He released a rough sound, pressed his nose into my hair, his mouth moving near my temple. “You’re right. It hurts, Izzy. Hurt’s so fuckin’ bad. That’s the truth.”

The words staggered me, whipping through me with the force of a storm. And I knew what he was sayin’, where they were coming from. But I didn’t think either of us were prepared for that conversation tonight. I didn’t want him saying things he didn’t mean when he had alcohol soaking his brain.

When my heart was already tattered and torn and mangled like his body.

Bleeding at the sight of him like this.

I started toward the short hall at the back of the open room that housed his living room and kitchen.

He took lurching steps as we went, teeth clenching as he grunted with physical pain, and I took on as much of his weight as I could.

Tears stung the back of my eyes.

Because he was hurting.

Because he felt too good.

Because I didn’t think I could ever fully trust him again.

“Where is your bedroom?” I murmured.

“Down the hall . . . last door on the right,” he grumbled through halting breaths.

I got him all the way to the end of the hall, to the double doors sitting there as if they were asking for permission for passage.

A disorder blew through, the air too thin, too deep, too profound.

Gathering my strength, I reached out and turned the knob. The door swung open to a big room.

Modern and redone like the rest of his house.

Masculine and sexy.

My heart panged.

I ignored it, ignored the forgotten dreams and his massive bed and his scent that was hitting me from all sides. I led him into the attached bathroom where I flicked on the light.

He squinted beneath the harshness, and I gasped again when his wounds were illuminated this way. “Oh, God, Maxon . . . what did they do to you? You should be at the hospital.”

“Don’t want to.”

A frown pulled at my face. “You don’t have to be the tough one all the time.”

He stumbled over a choked laugh. “Not so tough tonight.”

I released a breath. “Four men got to you?”

“Four punk kids. I should . . . I should have . . .” He trailed off in some kind of agony. I could feel it. All the things from earlier.

“Izzy . . . I’m so sorry.” He was slurring more, and I was shushing him, whispering, “We’ll talk about it later.”

“You came.”

“Yeah.”

“For me?” Vulnerability tumbled out with his question. A band pulled tight, right through the middle of me.

The part that wanted to promise that I’d be there for him forever and the other that hated him for what he’d done.

“I figured you and I had more things we needed to say to each other.”

“So many things,” he mumbled.

“Let’s save it for when you feel better, why don’t we?” I pled, sure my heart couldn’t handle a thing he would say.

Maybe I should have listened to my mama when she said we both needed time to clear our heads. She was right. We needed it. But that would have meant I wouldn’t have been here for him this way. And tonight . . . just for tonight, I wanted to be.

“Fuckin’ hurts.” His face twisted.

My stomach did the same, hating that he was in pain.

“I know,” I told him, trying to soothe him. Because it did. It hurt so bad. And I wasn’t sure if that would ever go away.

He reached out, and his fingertips brushed my cheek. “So pretty.”

Redness flushed. I bit my bottom lip, ignoring it, knowing he wouldn’t be sayin’ it if his restraint wasn’t dulled.

If the reality wasn’t marred and distorted by the trauma of the night.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

I stepped back a little so I could gather the hem of his shirt in my hands. Maxon stared down at me.

Blue eyes roiled, fierce and uncontrolled, air coming in harsh breaths from his nose.

I tore my attention away, unable to stay standing beneath the weight of it all.

“I’m going to need to take your shirt off. Is that okay?”

He grunted his approval, and I started pulling it up, over those rows of perfectly chiseled abs he’d been teasing me with a few days ago.

I tried not to look. Not to let my mouth water or my body trip into need.

I tried all the harder not to cry when I saw the purples and blues rising under the red scrapes, some of them pitted with tiny rocks where his shirt had torn, a big scrape over the scar that remained on his side. One that I would never, ever forget.

And I was picturing him a ball on the ground.

People hurtin’ him. I hated it. Hated it so much.

“Oh, God, Maxon.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I hate that this happened to you.”