“Don’t you see I’m ruined?” I scream. I know the others heard me, but they don’t try to stop me or save her. Fools. She sighs, looking annoyed.

“Where? Where are you ruined?” she snaps, obviously sick of being kind. “Your chest? It’s hot, get the fuck over it, you have a few scars.” She snorts.

“A few?” I roar, and get into her face, pointing at the melted tissue across my torso. “It’s a fucking horrendous mess that makes me feel sick to even look at. How could you ever expect me to think you find this attractive?”

“You don’t get to tell me who I find attractive,” she counters with a growl, angry herself. “I love your scars the way I love my own. They actually made me feel close to you before anyone else. Someone with those scars knows pain, like me. So yes, I like them, yes, I want you so fucking badly it’s stupid, so badly I touch myself to the thought of you, even when you’re mean and hateful. You don’t get to tell me what I want because you’re fucking scared!” she yells, and then breathes heavily as we stare at each other.

“Of course I’m scared, I’m fucking terrified,” I shout, slamming my hand into my chest. “She ruined me, my body, my mind, and fuck, Rox, how can you want that? How could you want me to touch you when I’m such an asshole? When I might kill you?”

“What’s a little danger?” She grins. “I’ve been with Diesel, dude, you aren’t worse than him.”

I go quiet then, unsure what to say.

“They didn’t tell you what happened?” I ask lowly.

“No, it’s your story to tell,” she replies quietly, not angry anymore. Fuck, we’re messing this truce thing up. “Are you okay?”

Scrubbing my face, I sit, pressing my back to the wall, and she sits with me. “Yes, no,” I mutter, unable to look at her. “I’ve had nightmares ever since, but they’ve been worse recently.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and I nod. We sit in silence and she sighs. “I’ll leave, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t leave,” I snap straightaway, and I feel her whirling around to gape at me.

But I don’t know what to say or do. I’m so fucking rusty at this shit, and I don’t know what will trigger me. How can I reach for her when I know I might hurt her? Isn’t me wanting her selfish? But I do. I want her.

I’ve wanted to kiss the shit out of her every time we argue, wanted to throw her to the bed and fuck her. But I can’t.

She slides closer, but I still can’t bear to look at her. She laughs quietly, and then the next thing I know she throws her leg over my lap and she’s before me, hovering above my hips. “This okay?” she inquires.

All I can do is nod mutely, and she smiles down at me. “Garrett, you noticed before any of them that I flinch when someone moves too fast. You know why, right? I’m betting you have worked it out or they have told you.”

“Your dad.” I nod, wishing I killed the bastard when I had the chance.

“My dad.” She nods and smiles bitterly. “The first time I had sex after…” She swallows. “It was hard, it was my first time, it was supposed to be amazing, but we were drunk, and all I kept seeing every time he grabbed me was my dad. It was over quickly, and I cried and walked home. It got better, I learned to block it out. I got good at it, at handling my reactions. It took a lot of years, fuck, I still flinch now. I still have nightmares, it doesn’t just go away—trauma sticks with you every day of your life. But we have a choice whether to let it control or destroy us. I decided neither, because that way he wins. That sounds stupid and conceited, like I just simply decided one day, but I did. I was tired of being afraid, so even now when shit terrifies me, when I get flashbacks or nightmares or react wrongly…I choose how to deal with it. Me. No one else, because they can’t understand how I’m feeling in the moment. No one else can. Healing isn’t easy, sweetheart. In some ways, it’s worse than the actual…abuse, and you will have setbacks and get disheartened, but it’s worth the try. Otherwise, you’re still caught in those memories, still fighting for survival…”

“I’m tired of fighting,” I admit, and she grins.

“Me too. So if I do shit wrong, if I trigger you or anything, speak. Let me know. Let us know how we can help in any way, because they want to. Your brothers, they are reaching for you, trying to understand how they can protect you. Help you. As am I. You have to decide whether you can let us.”

“I need to do this alone,” I mutter.

“I know, but we’re here,” she whispers, “and sometimes that’s enough, or maybe I’m just half asleep and rambling.”

I chuckle, and she grins.

“Want to watch a movie or something?”

“No, I really fucking don’t,” I snap, and her face drops. As she’s about to shift away, I dart my hand out, slower than I normally would so she can see it coming, tangle it in her hair, and yank her to me. She gasps as I slam my lips to hers. I freeze at first, unused to contact, but when she starts to move against me with a moan, I can’t help but grunt and kiss her.

She whimpers into my mouth as I sweep my tongue between her lips and tangle it with hers. The kiss is desperate and raw, filled with a need so strong, I can’t help but imagine her lips around my cock. But then she drops onto my lap, obviously tired of holding herself up, and I freeze.

I wonder if she can taste the fear on my lips, fear that this will disappear and become just another dream, and I’ll go back to wanting her from afar. Craving her with desolation running through my mind.

The pressure of her on me, above me.

Fuck.

I don’t even remember moving, but when I blink, she’s pinned on the bed beneath me and I’m snarling at her. Horrified at myself, I scramble away. “Fuck, sorry, fuck.”

I can’t bear to look at her, but her hand lands lightly on my shoulder, unafraid even after I tried to hurt her yet again. “It’s okay, was it the kissing or me being on you?”

“Fuck, Rox, why does it matter?” I snap, as I scrub my face. “You being on me,” I whisper sadly. “She-she was on top when she did this.” I gesture at my chest. “I was tied down, unable to move or escape.”

“And me being on you—” She sighs. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Garret.”

“Yeah, me too, I’m fucked up,” I growl.

She goes quiet then, and I turn to her, suddenly angry with myself—with my past, with women, with my own fucking need that I can’t goddamn sate. “I’m fucking sick of this shit, of being fucking hard and unable to touch you. I want to fuck you so badly it hurts. I wake up coming on my own goddamn stomach imagining you beneath me, me pounding into you. Those screams you give the others in my ears.” I shake my head, slamming my fist into my chest. “I want you so fucking badly. How can you sit there so calmly?” I almost yell.

Chest heaving, I stare at her as she sits up and crosses her legs, her eyes going faraway. “In your dreams, am I below you?” she asks.

“What the fuck does that matter?” I snarl, my hand circling her throat, squeezing as I bring her closer, but she doesn’t fight it.