Page 40 of Compulsion

A shadow deepens in his cheek as his jaw ticks more with more force. “I’m not asking,” he says firmly. “I want to keep you safe. Trust me.”

His long fingers close around mine before I can respond. “You’re shaking,” he remarks. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. You need to sit down and hydrate.”

I attempt a dismissive laugh to alleviate his concern. “I’m just being silly. It really was nothing.” I square my shoulders with considerable effort and summon up my sunny smile. “I thought we were going out on a date?”

He fixes me with a disapproving frown, and my chest hollows out.

“Come on,” he prompts, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go into your place.”

“You really don’t have to take care of me.” I try to protest as he steers me out of the laundry room. The humid summer air is oddly cold against my sweat-slicked skin after the heat of the running dryers. “I’m fine.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to,” he counters. “And don’t lie to me, Abigail. It’s okay to be disturbed by what happened in there. That bastard shouldn’t have cornered you. You were a woman alone in a small space with a much biggerman. You don’t have to be proud around me and conceal your emotions.” That shadow at his jaw flutters again. “Did he touch you?”

“No.” I soften on a sigh and lean into Dane, allowing myself the moment of weakness.

I’m so tired of holding myself together, and he’s refusing to allow me to pretend I’m fine. I don’t want to lie to Dane, even if I can’t tell him about the masked man’s attack. I can at least be honest with my emotions. I can be vulnerable with him.

He opens my unlocked front door, and his frown deepens. But he ushers me inside without admonishment.

“Ron didn’t touch me,” I say. “He just tried to help me fold my laundry. I told him I didn’t want his help, but he grabbed my shirt anyway. Thank you for getting it back from him.”

My arms are still locked around the rest of my clean clothes, holding them like a shield.

But I don’t need to shield myself from Dane.

When he steers me to the couch, I unlock my muscles and drop the laundry onto it. Then my knees finally fold, and I sink down onto the cushions beside my clothes.

His big hand squeezes my shoulder, and my stomach flips. My fear responses are still on high alert, and I internally curse the warning flutter at the center of my chest.

I’m alone in my private space with Dane, but he’s not a threat. I’ve conditioned my body to have this thrilling response to his touch because of my fucked-up fantasies about him.

I take a breath and try to calm my racing heart.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, and again, it’s not a question.

My place isn’t exactly difficult to navigate, so he has no trouble walking three paces to enter the cramped kitchen space. He manages to find my water glasses on the first try—therearen’t many cabinets to choose from—and makes quick work of filling one.

He returns to the couch and presses the cool glass into my colder hand before settling down beside me. The seat is so small that his hip brushes mine. I could move the laundry and scoot away from him, but I don’t want to put any distance between us.

His body heat pulses over me, chasing away the last of the chill that lingers in my flesh. I melt, my tense muscles easing as calm finally settles over me like a soft blanket on my shoulders.

Allowing Dane to take care of me feels almost euphoric after years of stubbornly making my own way. A sense of lightness makes my bones feel almost hollow, as though I could soar like a bird. I lean into my fierce protector, tentatively pressing my shoulder against his corded arm. His hand comes up to cup the side of my head, and he gently urges me to tuck myself close to him. My breaths slow to match the steady rise and fall of his chest, and his deft fingers trail through my hair in a soothing motion.

A sense of intimacy blossoms between us, and for a few blissful moments, my mind is utterly quiet. I can simply languor in this safe space with Dane, and I don’t have to feel guilty or weak for accepting his support.

He won’t allow me to refuse it, so I’m able to give myself permission to surrender, sinking into his strength.

“Is that the first time he’s harassed you?” he rumbles after I’ve taken a few sips of water.

“Who, Ron?” I ask on a sigh. I’m so comfortable and calm that an echo of my fear doesn’t so much as tingle up my spine. “That’s the first time I’ve met him. He said he’s moving into one of the apartments upstairs.”

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and little sparks ping along my scalp in response to his tender touch.

“But it’s not the first time a man has harassed you.” He says it like a condemnation of all men, his voice dropping to a deep, disapproving register.

Who hurt you?I recall his intense question from our first date.

I’m not ready to open up to him about my past trauma; I’m still trying to get a handle on my own physical responses, and I don’t want to scare him away with my baggage.

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