Page 87 of The Worst Kind of Promise
Something’s holding my arms down. I’m completely helpless. Not just helpless but forced towatchwhat’s being done to me.
A repeated invasion. A repeated memory. A repeated trauma trapped in my brain. A ghost that always lingers in the shadows, whether I’m asleep or awake, haunting me for the rest of my life. No matter how far I get away from it, it’ll never be far enough.Hewill always find me.
I awake in a cold sweat, depleted of breath and panting for air, my soul feeling like it’s been pulled from my physical body and forced to solidify in an incompatible world. My voice breaks on a cry, and my vision doesn’t adjust quickly enough to unknot the panic gnarling inside me.
I immediately search for Kit’s arms in the darkness, my hands patting the mattress distraughtly, but the lack of warmth beside me reminds me that he’s not here—that I’m alone in the bed. My heart rages behind my ribs, and the moisture lacquered on my face must’ve followed me from my nightmare. Tears ambush my eyes as I pull my knees into my chest, condensing myself into a small ball, as if that’ll protect me from my hyperactive mind. The words stay with me—braying, derisive, preying on the progress I’ve made, insistent on squashing my resilience like scraps of metal in a trash compactor.
With my head buried, I can’t see who charges into the room, but I know the feeling of the arms that encircle me. I switch from folding in on myself to leaning on the one person who’s been my rock this whole time, letting him take some of the pain like he promised.
“Shh, Faye. You’re okay. You’re safe,” he whispers, his hand stroking the back of my head, and his scent surrounding me like a second skin.
I clutch at the cotton material of Kit’s shirt, trying to remind myself that I’m in Kit’s room, physically safe from Saxon, with no chance that he’ll ever hurt me again. But it’s hard for me to suppress the memory—because God knows I could never forget. I sob hysterically into his arms, not caring if the loudness of my cries notifies the rest of the guys in the house.
“Breathe, Faye. I’m right here.”
Hiccups lay siege to my raw throat. “I can’t.”
Kit’s voice is a low rumble in his chest before it tickles my eardrums. “You can. In and out, Princess. Follow my breathing.”
I can feel his ribs expand against my legs with said breath, and thanks to being in the darkness for so long, my vision isn’t nearly as blurry as it was before. The image of Kit’s silhouette in front of me neutralizes my abject terror, slowing my pulse and arming me with enough composure to try and mirror his breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
Fresh air reaches the farthest corners of my lungs, circulating through me on swift wings, and that paperweight on my sternum lifts slightly.
I know I probably should’ve said something along the lines of “Thank you,” but all that spews from the cusp of my lips is “You came.”
He brushes the back of his knuckles over my cheekbone. “I’ll always come when you call,” he says.
Comfort. Something I’ve never known much about. Not from my father, not from my exes, not from the man who raped me. I only found it in the shape of my brother, but even then, I had convinced myself that his comfort only existed out of obligation. Kit, though. Kit is a different story. He’s synonymous with comfort. A lighthouse guiding me to shore in the bowels of a violent storm.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” I apologize, dabbing the tears from under my eyes, shame cartwheeling through my stomach.
I wish I could see his face, but all that my vision allows is the sight of his defined profile under a canopy of shadow—one that manipulates moonlight across the ceiling like a master puppeteering a marionette.
“Don’t be sorry. I couldn’t even sleep.”
“Because I took your bed,” I finish guiltily, mucus congesting my naval cavities and trickling down the back of my throat.
“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he corrects, moving his hand to thread his fingers through mine, giving me one of his consolatory squeezes.
Love acts as a soothing balm on my hacked heart, and slowly, the pain from my nightmare begins to deescalate. “Oh.”
His chuckle sounds sweeter than the early-morning trilling of mourning doves—a precursor to a new dawn. It reminds me that only hope is stronger than fear, that hope is the answer to surviving my trauma.
“Oh,” he mocks.
The mattress dips to accommodate Kit’s weight, and he sidles up beside me, his back flush against the headboard. “Come here,” he coaxes.
Even in the darkness, I’m able to find his body, find the space in his arms where I have always fit. I curl up against his chest, resting my ear over his heart, where I hear his lifeblood rushing through him. A strong plinth holding up my fragility.
He kisses the crown of my head as he forks his fingers through ratty tresses of my hair. “You wanna talk about it?”
I’m surprised that I don’t instantly shut him down. “It was about…Saxon.”
“I’m so sorry, Faye.” His tone, although croaky from exhaustion, is packed with empathy powerful enough to scare away the monsters skulking on the outskirts of my mind. “Is there anything I can do?”
Realistically, there’s nothing he can do. Or I guess he’s done everything hecando. When he mentioned to me that he may or may not have rearranged Saxon’s face, I was furious at him for going behind my back. But now, after I found out why he really did it, I’m not going to lie and say that a little part of me isn’t satisfied. Kit’s scary—I’ve seen the way he flattens players on the ice—and by the amount of blood he lost that night, I don’t doubt that Saxon lookedwayworse.
