Page 73 of Breaking Isolde
He is so gentle I want to scream.
When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, looks up at me, and says, “You’re safe now.”
I don’t believe him. But I want to.
He stands, rummages in the closet, and tosses me a sweatshirt. It’s his, the sleeves too long, the body too wide. I pull it over my head, breathing in the boy-and-mint smell.
He sits on the bed beside me, not touching, just watching.
For a long time, we sit in silence.
Finally, he says, “I’m not going to hurt you again.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.
His chest heaves in a big sigh, “I want you to stay.”
I snort. “You’re not exactly giving me a choice, Grey.”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean, I want you to stay. With me. Because you want to.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I pull the covers up to my chin and stare at the ceiling, willing the world to slow down for just a minute.
He lies beside me, on his back, arms folded. Not touching, not crowding, just there.
After a while, the pain in my body dulls to a throb. All my swirling emotions fade to a background hum.
I let myself drift, just a little.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, I don’t dream of drowning.
I dream of the boy with the broken smile, and the feel of his hand around my ribs, gentle enough not to break me.
And I dream of a future where I’m not prey, or predator, but something new.
Something that might survive.
I’m not sure if I sleep or just pass out, but when I surface, he’s still there, but now he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg jiggling. There’s a bruise blooming down his arm, a cut at his eyebrow, blood dried on the side of his neck. He looks less like a wolf and more like a college kid who got hit by a bus.
He didn’t even leave me long enough to clean himself up.
He’s staring at the wall, eyes fixed, not moving. For a moment, I’m sure I’m dead and this is hell, but then he glances down at me and all the guilt in the world fits into that one look.
“You’re awake.”
I try to sit up, and the pain brings me back to earth. “You didn’t even shower.”
He doesn’t smile. “I don’t want you to wake up alone.”
“Ha.”
“I’m sorry,” his hand comes to rest on my thigh over the blanket. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
I don’t want his apology. I want to throw it back at his face, rip out the part of me that almost believes it.
But when he looks up, there’s something in his eyes I don’t know how to fight.
