Page 182 of Under the Bed

I’m not sure. Not sure what he meant. Not sure that I want more gut-wrenching truths to come out of his mouth.

Unfortunately, there’s no running from it. Year after year, he had no one. Kaleb was alone. He isn’t anymore. Never will be.

“Worth what?”

“Worth. It.” He dips his mouth to my cheek, kissing me first. His tongue swipes along the tears that stream down my cheeks. Fresh tears that fall without my permission.

Kaleb kisses them, then wipes them off the other cheek with his rough palm.

Claims them as his.

“I’m sorry.” For so many things. For every single one of them.

“I said…” He sucks on my cheek. I sigh, and he lets out a low chuckle that reaches all the way down to my toes. “Worth it.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I’ll keep repeating it for the rest of my life.” His hand slides up from my waist, wrapping around the side of my neck. “You were worth it. The probing. The isolation. The guards,the attendants. Being away from you. Avenging you was worth it.”

Goosebumps break out along my skin. I dig my fingers into his hoodie, and he groans, pulling me closer, angling my face to the side, pressing his lips to my other cheek.

He moans into my skin, and I arch my back for him. I can’t help it. I’m not in charge of my own body.

I just need him.

“Your birthdays were the only times the fuckers made me take any drugs,” he whispers, his lips rugged and soft at the same time. I’m dizzy. I’m sad. I’m his. “Wasn’t the worst thing. Being forced to sleep for hours one day of the year. Worth it, Shi.”

Pushing his chest, I put some space between us. I gawk at him.

Relief overwhelms me. I can’t breathe.

He didn’t take their drugs. He fooled everyone.

He manipulated them.

He won.

A sob rips from my chest. It’s a visceral pain that I tried to suppress. I worked hard to put away the images Dad had planted in my head. Images of a drugged Kaleb. A suffering Kaleb.

It.

Hurts.

So bad.

Someone is carving me up from the inside.

Every sad, scary and depressing image of a suffering Kaleb shoots up to my consciousness. They never happened, but Dad made me imagine them.

It was the stuff my nightmares were made of. I’d wake up screaming. Wake up sweating and crying and?—

None of that ever happened,I repeat. None of it. But it doesn’t help when the images and repressed fear bang at my consciousness.

My wounded cry is feral, tortured. So pained that Kaleb turns off the stove, grabs my hips, and sets me on the counter.

“Tell me.” He pushes himself between my thighs. My face is wrapped in his huge hands. This isn’t a comforting touch. He’s protecting me. Erecting a wall between me and the world. “Let me carry the pain for you. Let. Me.”

“My pain?” Keeping my voice down is a true challenge.

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