Page 33 of Brutal Knight

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I’m surprised, blindsided by the confession. It takes a few seconds for me to process what he’s said.

I don’t know what to say except for, “What?”

“I was adopted.”

He doesn’t clarify. There’s a new stiffness to his body. He pulls back a little, straightening his shoulders. I can almost see how he’s pulling himself away from the conversation. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

It seems painful to him. I wonder if he knew his birth parents, if he was young when they left his life. I wonder if they died or just abandoned him. Somehow, I know that his story isn’t a happy one. There’s pain in his eyes.

Why is he telling me this? Is this another trick? Maybe he wants to guilt me into trusting him. But I’m not sure. He seems genuine.

Something softens in his gaze as he thinks. His eyes draw me in despite the way I fight it—I can tell he hurt at one time, that there’s still something raw inside him, some wound. I can tell he’s trying to meet me in the middle. This is his way of giving away a secret, a personal part of him he wouldn’t usually share.

I don’t know why I feel that same spark I did in the hallway. I don’t know why I feel like this is honest, real. It just burns in my chest, warm in a way I haven’t felt before.

I wait for him to say something else. I don’t want to ask, worried I might say the wrong thing and turn the entire moment around. I want to hear more from him, but we’re both locked in silence.

He leaves quietly. I almost want to say something, but I’m not ready to pull him back just yet. I watch Connor go, and then the door shuts, leaving me alone with the dinner he brought me.

I can’t stop thinking about his eyes.

I eat and then go to shower, still stuck on thoughts of Connor and how vulnerable he seemed in that moment, when he told me he was adopted. I don’t know if other people know. I guess they must. But I didn’t. And he told me.

I sigh when the hot water hits me. I try to loosen up, letting all the tension run off my body with the water. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, but I know I’m clean. I’m here. I could start all over again.

Maybe.

I don’t know why, but I slide my hand down between my legs.

I’ve never done this before—not for myself. Dmitri would force me to do it sometimes, but I never felt anything. Not with him. I just did what he wanted to save myself worse pain.

Now, something is different. When I touch myself, I can feel that same warmth pool low in my belly. There’s an unfamiliar fluttering, a static electricity that crackles on my skin. I can feel my breathing get quicker, my chest rising and falling.

But just as soon as it comes, the feeling of my fingers is replaced with a harsh memory of Dmitri’s men shoving me down, Dmitri’s hand rough beneath my dress. I can hear his voice in my ear, hear the others’ laughter around me.

I yank my hand away and curl up against the side of the shower. The pleasure dies out, leeched away by the memories invading behind closed eyes. I dig my nails into my arms.

The tears falling from my eyes eventually blend with the water. I let them fall and hope they can wash away, just the way I wish the memories would.

CHAPTER12

Connor

I’m not sure what I expected from Willow, but it wasn’t what happened between us.

I thought she felt something between us and decided to act on it, but then she shut off and revealed that it was just an act of self-preservation. It was just her way of trying to save herself from the man she thought I was.

The entire situation still has me thrown off. I didn’t know—but of course I didn’t know the details, just what kind of monster Dmitri was. I knew he sucked the light out of Willow. I just didn’t realize what he did to her.

What he made her do.

I hate it. I hate it, and I wish I knew more about Willow, more about who she is. I don’t want to focus on what Dmitri did. I want her to know I don’t give a shit about him, and I’m not like him.

The only thing I can think to do is look it up. So I go to my office, turn a lamp on, and start to search. I feel a little like a creeper, Googling her late at night, but I know she won’t tell me. Willow doesn’t trust me. How could I expect her to detail how she suffered in Dmitri’s hands?

This is the best I can do.

Scrolling through the results lands me what I expected. There’s a tiny article about their marriage, a handful of pictures from the photographer’s website. I open the first one and take a look.

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