Page 39 of Demitri

“Sure is. I left the day I turned eighteen and I haven’t been back.”

“And you moved here and?—”

“And met Brett Ashby, local cop. Thought he’d be safe. He wasn’t.”

I think he knows not to push any more than that. And isn’t that just the bitch of the matter? He’s been the perfect man. Patient, kind, too fucking understanding. It’s been weeks. He’s been sleeping at my house, playing protector to me day and night. But he hasn’t been back in my room since that first night. He’s held strong, keeping me where I usually have to be—at arm’s length.

But I don’t like it. Not at all. Today when he grabbed my hand, that was the first time he’d touched me. He still understands my safe zones, and he didn’t break them. But it made me realize I miss his touch. I miss him holding me like he did that night. The night I slept through and didn’t wake in a cold sweat, screaming. The night I woke up rested for the first time in a long time.

And then I went and ruined it by having a breakdown in the bathroom. Talking about these things is always hard. If I could forget them, I would. But the memories are never far away, triggered by so many things.

“What are you thinking about,Krasotka?”

I feel my face heat in embarrassment. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yup,” I agree.

“You still don’t feel like you can tell me things, do you?”

I hear the disappointment in his voice. The sadness that I’m keeping things from him. That I’m keepingeverythingfrom him.

“I want to tell you,” I quietly confess. “But I don’t know how.”

“The beginning is usually the best place to start.”

“I’m afraid you’ll walk away. Decide I’m too much work and tell me to fuck off.”

He laughs. A hard, almost choking sound. “You think you’re easy?” He finally wheezes. “Mia, you are the most controlling person I’ve ever met. And that’s saying a lot, considering my father was Ivan Pavlov.”

“So you’re already tired of me, then?”

“Did I say that?” He turns his head, giving me a cutting look. “No. I did not say that. I also don’t care that you’re controlling. It’s what you need to stay sane in this world. I’d never hold that against you, and when you’re controlling other people, it’s a fucking turn on. What I’m saying is, if I haven’t walked away yet, there isn’t anything you could tell me that would make me do it now.”

I stare out the window, watching the scenery go by. How do I tell him everything? How do I get through telling him all the dark parts of myself? I blow out a hard breath and close my eyes.

“My parents didn’t want me. I was the third child that made their perfect family off-balance. I was also a number of years younger than my siblings, who were the perfect eighteen months apart. My father started grooming me when I got my first training bra. I wasn’t supposed to go to college. I wasn’t supposed to want things for myself. I was supposed to get married young, have grandchildren they could ignore, and he didn’t care how old the man was, as long as he took me out of their house and off their budget.”

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “He sucks.”

“Yeah,” I laugh humorlessly. “And I knew from the age of ten that’s all I should be. I also knew there was no way in hell I was going to do that. I worked hard. I entered cooking competitions. After all, a proper wife knows how to cook, right? This was acceptable, but they didn’t know why I wanted it so badly. Every competition I entered came with a scholarship prize, notcash. Because if it had been cash, they would have kept it for themselves.”

“Smart girl.” He gives me a small grin.

“By the time I was a junior in high school, I had enough money to pay for college. To move out and away. I applied for every college that was more than one state away. One in Louisville, Kentucky, one in New York, Florida, and Virginia.”

“And Briar Mountain,” he finishes the list for me.

“Yeah, and Briar Mountain. I thought the small-town college would be better. Not as many people. I think I was wrong about that.”

“What happened, Mia?”

The way he asks when he already knows the answer is going to be painful. The gentleness of his voice, prompting me to go on, but still making it sound okay if I stop. Not sure when it happened, but we are sitting in my driveway. The truck is still running, and neither of us seems to be in a hurry to get out of the cab. Maybe this is what I need. The safety of an enclosed space with an easy exit. And let’s face it, sitting in a truck isn’t a facing each other activity, so the fact that I don’t have to look at him while I talk put me at ease. If I can’t see his eyes—the same eyes that are so expressive when he looks at me—maybe, just maybe, I can get through this.

“I met Brett my second week on campus. My roommate talked me into going to some party at a frat house. There was booze and other substances flowing freely. A guy tried to give me a drink, but I’m not stupid. I knew what roofies were, and I wasn’t going to take that chance. I slipped away and made my own drink while dumping the first one. That same guy kept watching me, waiting. When whatever he gave me didn’t take effect like he wanted, he got aggressive.” I pause to take a breath. “Other people there pulled him away. A big fight broke out, and the cops were called. Brett was the officer who showed up.”

“Was he the only one?” Demitri asks, nothing but curiosity in his voice.

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