Page 60 of Clashing
Ryker brushed a gentle hand over my shoulder. “Scarlett, can I hold you?”
“You don’t have to be nice to me. I freaked out.” I laugh-cried. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. Let me hold you.” He sat on the bed beside me. “Come here.”
Safe, open arms awaited me. Ryker beckoned me forward. I hesitated, but the pressure and comfort of an embrace would help stop my shaking. I tightened the blanket around me, then lunged into his arms. He caught me and pulled me into his lap, hands outside the blanket.
Okay tears, please stop.“I’m sorry.”
“Stop.” He kissed the top of my head and caressed my spine. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
The waterworks upgraded their show but not because of the flashback. Because of Ryker. Because he was patient and gentle. I’d never been with anyone so understanding. At first, I thought I couldn’t stand to be touched but the thing about Ryker was he knew exactly how to embrace me. He held me tight enough to keep me together but loose enough I could pull away if I needed to.
He stayed quiet while I got a hold of myself. His embrace remained constant, his heartbeat a steady rhythm mine strived to meet. It could’ve been hours that I let him hold me. Not once did he let go or tell me to calm down. He held space for me while I let it out in a way I hadn’t allowed myself before. A real, thorough, ugly crying session I’d probably needed for a long time but hadn’t been able to express.
The crying slowly subsided and my eyelids drooped, exhausted and heavy. Ryker smoothed a hand over my hair. “What happened, sugar? Was it the position? Was it something I said?”
I shook my head, and he sighed. “You gotta tell me, baby. I don’t want to trigger you. I need to know so I don’t do it again. You can tell me.” His voice softened to a tender tone. “I’m not going to make you feel bad about it.”
I hated he was right. If I kept having sex with him, I couldn’t keep doing this.
I swallowed and my eyes went downcast. “I think it was . . . both the position and you saying ‘trust me.’ The two together, I guess,” I muttered.
“I won’t do it again.” His arms tightened around me. “You’re safe with me. You know that, don’t you? I won’t hurt you. Any other triggers you know of, tell me so this doesn’t happen again, okay?”
“I don’t know what they are.” I peered up at him, shame warming my face. “I don’t know what they are until they happen.”
“All right. Don’t worry about it.” He brushed a light kiss over my forehead. “You want your clothes? I’ll leave the room so you can put them on.”
“Can I have your shirt?”
“Sure, baby.” He maneuvered me onto the bed and secured the blanket around me before he stood.
Ryker tossed me the shirt he’d been wearing earlier, then closed me in the room alone. Not wanting to be by myself, I dressed in his shirt and my leggings then rushed out. The dogs greeted me with licks as soon as I exited, eyes full of concern. They pawed at me until I crouched to give them love and the licks increased as they sandwiched me between them. My chest swelled and I hugged them. Clanking glasses led me to the kitchen where Ryker set out two crystal cups.
Whiskey glugged into the glasses, and I perched on one of the stools. Securing the cork on the bottle, Ryker pushed one of the glasses toward me. I didn’t take it. Mainly because he leaned forward on his forearms, gaze unrelenting. I squirmed in my seat, not enjoying the observed-under-a-microscope stare.
He sipped his whiskey. “Take the drink, Scar. You’re going to need it.”
My stomach knotted and I closed my hands around the cool glass.
Ryker tipped his head back, emptying half his glass in one go. “You’re probably going to get pissed at me for this,” he lowered the glass to the counter, “but I’m done dancing around the topic. So, get pissed, but listen. You never talked to anyone about what happened, did you?”
I averted my eyes and took a sip. The alcohol didn’t burn my throat as badly as my mortification.
“Didn’t think so.” He crossed his arms. “Am I the only one who knows? Your mom doesn’t know? No friends?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Too bad, sugar. We’re talking about it. Because that,” he gestured to the bedroom, “can’t keep happening. I can handle anxiety attacks so don’t twist this shit and convince yourself I’m saying something for my benefit. I’m not. I’m telling you, if you don’t talk to somebody, this will consume you. Pretending it didn’t happen doesn’t work. It’ll fester and get worse.”
I curled my arms around myself. “I’m handling it.”
“No, you’re not. You’re pretending it didn’t happen. You’re having nightmares. You’re having this.” He flung his hand toward the bedroom, but his tone softened. “You don’t have to live like that. There are people who can help you cope and heal. You’re not healing because you’re refusing to see it as a problem and that’s going to make it hurt more. You gotta face it, Scar. No matter how scary it is.”
“I don’t want to see a therapist.” I hated the tears blurring my vision. “I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to handle it myself.”
“I know.” He dragged his hand over his face. “You take care of yourself. I’m aware. But sometimes you need help. PTSD isn’t a joke. It fucks with you. It’ll affect other parts of your life. It’s going to be harder to hide the longer you let it go untreated. Listen, I know personally that pretending it’s fine makes it worse.”
