Page 29 of Kings Fear No One
They never hurt me or took away pieces of myself. I’d be whole again.
The problem is, every time I close my eyes, I’m inundated with bad memories. The living nightmare I endured being held captive by the Chosen Saints. I see the exorbitant dinners with the Leader at the head of the table and the times one of the guards took me when we were alone.
I taste the seed I’ve been made to swallow.
I can’t sleep and food no longer seems appetizing.
The few minutes Logan’s around, I’m hoping for a crumb of affection. Some comfort or reassurance. When I receive nothing, I’m crumpling into a ball of anxiety and stress ’til it starts over again.
Nothing really has changed.
I’m in the same spot on the sofa when Logan returns hours later. He reeks of cigarette smoke and his beard looks like it’s grown an inch thicker in the time he’s been gone. He scrubs a hand over the wiry hairs and pretends he doesn’t have a captive audience. That I’m not watching every step he takes.
He picks up the beer can he’d left hours ago.
“I told you not to wait up.”
“I couldn’t sleep…”
“It’s not resting if you don’t get any shuteye.”
“I’m more interested in what you were out doing.” I climb off the sofa with arms and legs that feel stiff from lack of use. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I’ve told you not to ask about club business.”
“I’m trying to make conversation.”
He drains the beer can, tossing it in the kitchen garbage. He hasn’t looked at me once as he moves from the kitchen into the hall. I become his shadow, following after him.
“What do you do at the saloon?” I ask nosily. I turn into his bedroom like it’s my space too. “Do you drink and watch sports?”
“You want to make conversation? Let’s talk about our visit to the clerk’s office.”
My brows knit in confusion. “Why would we go to the clerk’s office?”
“We need to get this undone.” He shrugs off his leather vest and toes out of his boots. He crosses the room bare chested, more weight and muscle returning by the day. Captivity will leave even tough guys like Logan malnourished.
At the most random times, I’m transfixed by him. A deep-rooted longing pulls at me and warms my skin. I’m left feeling strong urges I’ve never made sense of before. It’s like hunger but the craving for something other than food.
The craving to touch and be touched.
Only by him.
It started when we were still part of the Chosen Saints.
Logan and I were married and made to consummate our union. We were forced to do it so many times, it became a familiar part of my existence. I began to find a kernel of good in what was otherwise dark and ugly roots spreading through me.
I was Logan’s wife, and he was my husband.
We didn’t choose each other, but we would survive it together.
The vow had been made, and in the eyes of God, it was solidified.
But now that we’ve left the Chosen Saints, I’ve realized I might be wrong. While I’m transfixed by Logan, drifting after him, he won’t even glance at me.
A habit of his that started during our captivity and continues today now that we’ve regained our freedom.
He steps into the ensuite bathroom and flicks on the light. His reflection in the mirror shows the inverse of every tattoo inking his chest. It does the same to the tight-lipped expression etched onto his face.
