Page 69 of Unexpected Heroine

Although I’ll never fully know why my grandparents lied to me about being my parents, I’ve come to realize that not all lies are spoken with ill intent.

I don’t know why he lied about his name.

Nor why he hid the details of his job.

And I don’t know what else he’s hiding.

However, I believe his secrets have been killing him. Slowly and painfully, day by day. And the relief of hearing me say his name makes it perfectly clear that his deceit has left him feeling isolated and unable to escape. Buried in a tomb of his own making.

I know that feeling all too well. Perhaps that’s why I recognize it so easily in him.

It was my constant companion while growing up under a cloud of oppression.

When I learned my parents had lied to me all my life, it was yet another inescapable devastation on my shoulders.

I’ve also felt it acutely ever since I woke up chained to a wall almost a week ago.

His request tells me I hold the power to further free him from torment. Much like he saved me from that disgusting house where I was hiding in a dark, dirty closet.

“Can I please kiss you?”

He’s asking?

I don’t bother answering him. I can’t trust my words anyhow.

After exhaling shakily, I press my mouth to his. Tenderly, I slant my lips over his while running the flats of my palms over his shoulders, reaching toward the back of his neck.

He releases the most blissful sigh when I open for him. His familiar taste and touch bring waves of warmth that drive out the cold from my battered soul.

Sinking his hands back down where I placed them earlier, his firm fingertips dig into the soft flesh of my ass. He drags me forward, removing the inch of space between us. Now that I’m plastered against him, he releases his hold on my lower body and cups my face. Turning my head, he deepens the kiss. Seemingly weary of my injuries, he keeps a delicate hold of me.

He’s cherishing me.

It’s plain and simple adoration.

Through the kiss, he expresses his gratitude, silently thanking me for keeping him from running out the door in a fit of rage. With each swipe of his tongue, he thanks me for not letting his name—and whatever comes with it—drive a permanent wedge between us.

An odd thing happens to me as that realization dawns.

Now that he’s freed from his pain, mine becomes more acute. There’s only so much forgiveness in one person. By giving it to him, I’ve sacrificed myself.

How could I excuse his deceit so easily?

What does it say about me that I’m making out with him mere moments after confirming he’s lied to me about the most foundational part of him? Despite the knowledge flopping around in the back of my mind for nearly a week, my suspicions have only just now been validated. And yet... as if nothing is amiss, I’m on his lap and letting him kiss me like I’m the air that’s finally filling his lungs.

Somehow, he’s my oxygen too.

It’s maddening.

Where there was a tender acceptance and compassion for his suffering, there is now a biting force of agitation. I don’t know what to make of my reaction. I swear it makes less sense than a dentist at a candy shop.

Instead of the overwhelming numbness that has accompanied me for days, I’m experiencing a deluge of emotions, all of them slamming into me at once.

I’m hurt, enraged, mournful, confused, and most of all... aroused.

Something is very wrong with me.

Greedy to touch more of his skin, I sneak my hands under his shirt and soak up the feel of his taut flesh. Instead of tenderly caressing him, I dig my nails into his pecs and tug his chest hair.

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