Page 7 of How to Trust a Hellhound
“Oh, Josh,” Aiden said.
I knew I was bruised. I knew I had marks on my chest and back. Some of them were consensual, I supposed, and some of them were from fights.
“They aren’t… Some of them…” I started, but I trailed off, too tired to explain.
If Aiden had asked questions or showed me pity, I think it would have been my undoing, but he just walked over and turned the shower on to let it heat up.
“Do you need help getting anything else off?” Aiden’s voice was matter-of-fact and business-like, and I was thankful for it.
I shook my head no.
“Do you want me to pull out something comfy to wear? Maybe some sweatpants? And we’ll have someone look at your wrist, okay?” he asked.
“I’ll need a shirt,” I said. I didn’t want anyone else seeing my chest and back.
Aiden hummed thoughtfully then said, “I’ll grab a t-shirt from the house and cut the neck a bit so it’s looser and easier to get over your arm, okay?”
I nodded.
“Call if you need help.” Then he left, pulling the bathroom door gently shut.
I kicked off my shoes and sat on the toilet seat to take off my socks, and then I shimmied my pants down with my good hand. I kept my head down, refusing to look in the mirror as I got into the hot spray of water and started soaping down.
I knew what I’d see. A handprint on my cheek and, based on the throbbing I felt, maybe the start of some bruising, red-rimmed eyes from crying, and a swollen wrist. I was sure there were marks on my upper arms and a large bruise in the middle of my back from today’s fight. There would be older bruises, too, from being grabbed or pushed.
Then there were the…. other marks. Bruises, bites, hickeys. Once upon a time, I had enjoyed seeing my skin marked after sex—it had felt weirdly satisfying to feel like the sex had been so passionate that it had left behind marks. Now, the marks just made me feel sick. Did I even like what Rick and I did in the bedroom anymore? I used to enjoy things a little… rough. Wild. Rick and I had started out with a fantastic sex life, where I felt sexy and wanted and powerful.
Now I didn’t even know what I liked. There were no soft words with a pinch or slap on the ass. Things went from being sexy andflirty to just hurting, and I never complained. Why hadn’t I ever said anything? Or maybe I had, and Rick had brushed me off and made me feel dumb. That seemed to be the case when I said anything lately.
Rick made everything confusing, and there was just shame and fear when I thought about it all.
I was so fucked up.
I finished soaping myself off, probably rougher than I ought to be since I felt my skin ache. I washed my hair with the shampoo in the shower, then I turned the water even hotter to rinse off. I wanted to scald away the day. Burn off the past few months.
I gave a slight sob, and I heard rustling outside the door. I stifled my crying and turned off the water. Almost done. Almost time to just… let go. Aiden would look at my wrist, and then I’d climb into bed and just… sleep. Anything else seemed overwhelming.
I got out of the shower and there were sweatpants on the closed toilet seat. I managed to dry myself off with one arm, and then I sat down and finagled the sweatpants on one leg and then the other, standing to pull them up.
I opened the door to ask Aiden for the shirt, only it wasn’t Aiden standing there. It was Wilder. I took a shaky breath when I saw him, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. He didn’t look down at my chest. He just held the shirt out to me without a word.
If I had seen pity or disgust in his eyes, I would have shut the door in his face. But he just looked… calm. Understanding. Like it wasn’t all that bad. Like nothing was all that bad.
I took another shaky breath in, and maybe it was the start of a sob, I don’t know, but Wilder opened up his arms, still staring into my eyes and not looking at my bruises.
I didn’t make a conscious decision—I was just in his arms, crying onto his chest. I thought I was all cried out, but he was big and warm, and he was rumbling softly in a comforting way, making soothing sounds. Apparently I had more tears in me, because I sobbed against him.
I don’t know how long I cried. It felt like ages, but it could have been two minutes. My eyes hurt. Everything hurt. Wilder was still rumbling in a soothing way. He gently guided me to the couch, leaving me tucked into his chest. He sat down and sort of pulled me into his lap as he did, like I was a little kid.
Dear god, what was wrong with me? I had soaked the man’s t-shirt with tears and probably snot, and we hadn’t even really been introduced. I started to pull away, but he just shushed me and held onto me. I heard a knock on the door, and Wilder draped the t-shirt over my back, covering me up, still rumbling and holding onto me with one arm.
I knew I could have pulled away—I could tell he would have let me go if I really tried—but it was just easier not to, especially now that people were here. I couldn’t deal with people, and Wilder seemed to know it.
“Dry your face on my shirt, pup, and just stay here and relax while my boy takes a look at your wrist,” a deep voice rumbled into my ear. Then he rested his chin on top of my head, pressing my face in a little as if encouraging me to wipe my snot on him.
I gave a little uh-uh sound, shaking my head a bit, because I didn’t want to snot up the guy.
He just chuckled. “I raised five boys. Believe me, there’s no mess I haven’t seen.”
