Page 65 of Inside the Wicked

Neither of us move for a painstaking minute.

I take in his appearance too. His clothing is new. His hands are bandaged. I wonder how long he was out of his hell before he managed to find me in mine.

Rhett steps closer, and I let him unzip the jacket, peeling it from my shoulders. His fingers reach for the button of my shorts, but I panic. My breathing spikes as I lay my hands over his to stop him.

It’s Rhett.

I want to let him undress me, but it feels like a pretense with what’s torturing me inside.

He lets go without a word, and I can’t look up. The pain in his eyes would only break my spirit more. Instead Rhett takes off his black T-shirt, and I find distraction in the new marks all over him. My chest aches at every fresh bruise and new scar. I reach up, hesitating in case he doesn’t want me to touch him. When he doesn’t move, I melt at the feeling of his skin under my palms. There are so many new marks I don’t know where to begin.

“What did he do to you?” I whisper.

“I don’t care about any of the physical,” he says, detached from emotion.

It cleaves me when, with that, I realize there’s something he cares about. Something that isn’t physical to him, which Alistair tortured him with.

I look up as if I’ll find the answer floating to the surface of the ocean in his eyes, but he’s guarding that part. I lean forward and press my lips to his chest. I can wait as long as it takes for him to open up to me.

“I’m right here. You can tell me anything, and I’ll always be right here,” I say.

“Let’s start with a shower,” he says, tipping my chin. He tries a smile, but it’s anchored by a burden.

I want to wash more than anything. To scrub and scrub and hope to be rid of the impression of Micah’s vile hands on me. But I don’t want Rhett to see it. I fiddle with the hem of my untucked blouse, trying to quell the shame in me while I pace the same two steps.

It was not my fault.

It was not my fault.

If I hadn’t broken the camera, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to attempt the assault.

It was not my fault.

I take off my ruined top. In my hands I stare at it, wondering how I can’t remember the moment he tore it. I toss it aside. Reaching for the buttons of my shorts, I undo them one by one, with trembling fingers, because what I do remember is his hands doing this. His hand slipping past the hem of my underwear. His fingers moving against me, curving inside me.

I can’t do it.

My hands cover my face.

“I’ll wait right outside,” Rhett says gently.

I want to ask him to stay. It chokes in my throat, and when I let him leave I release my pain. I trained so hard. I didn’t want to be helpless. Yet I feel like I've let myself down.

When I step into the shower I lather my body with soap. I wash my hair and hiss at the wound from Micah slamming me to the door. The reminder breaks me, and I cry, sinking down in the shower to release some of the pressure building in me while the water muffles the sound. I don’t stay down for long when my anxiety that Rhett could leave climbs through my grief. I scrub my skin raw quickly and wash my face.

Stepping out, my stomach flutters at the folded pajamas Rhett must have found in the bedroom, along with a fresh towel slung on the heated rail.

I dry and change quickly, giving my hair a quick towel-dry too before I emerge into the bedroom. He’s not here, and I immediately head into the open kitchen/living area. My heart stops speeding when I find him by the fridge.

“You were quick,” he says, closing it after finding two bottles of water.

“I missed you.” It tumbles out of me. I mean it far more than just during my stupid ten-minute shower.

I don’t want to cry anymore, but I can’t fucking stop. I’m so, so exhausted, but I’m glad for it. This kind of tiredness is all for him. I don’t want to miss a second, a flicker, anything, now he’s back with me.

“You left so quickly, so sudden,” I croak. “I don’t think I can survive it again.”

When he’s close enough I wrap my arms around him, listening to his heartbeat.

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