Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (58)

“But it wasn’t all about punishment.” He takes a sip of wine, then sets the glass down. “Do you need to hear it plainly? I’ll say it. I want you, Sylvia. As intensely as I wanted you in Atlanta. And the moment I saw you in the theater, I knew that I was willing to make any deal I had to in order to get you close.”

His words are punctuated by each step he takes toward me. “Did I want your submission? Did I want you naked and willing beneath me? Hell, yes. I still do. But that’s not the whole of it. I want to make you feel. To make you laugh. I want to see that fire that burns in you. I want you to look at me the way you did five years ago. And, Sylvia? I want you to stay.”

My chest is tight, and I am having a hard time breathing.

“But I want none of that if the cost is hurting you.”

He reaches down and cups my chin in his hand, his expression so tender it makes my heart squeeze. “So there will be no deal. No game. No conditions put on my agreement to work on the resort. I will still do my best to seduce you,” he adds with a tender smile. “But I can’t be the one who brings you more pain.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I cannot. I can only shake my head, wanting to deny what he has so obviously seen.

His takes my hand, and though it is only our fingers that are touching, it feels as though his strength is running through me. “I’ve seen the lock, the tattoo, and I can guess what it means. I should have guessed in Atlanta.”

I look away, unable to meet his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have to bear that kind of burden. And if I added to the weight of it, I am so damn sorry.”

I look at him now, my throat thick and my eyes burning. “You didn’t,” I say. “Not really. Oh, god.” I draw in a breath and raise my hand to my mouth, then bite down on the soft flesh at the base of my thumb. “I want to cry—I really, really want to cry right now. I’m full up with tears,” I say, feeling almost like I’m drowning in my own emotions.

“Then let go,” he says, moving to sit beside me and gathering me in his arms.

I manage a half-laugh, then press close. “I can’t. I haven’t cried since I was fourteen.”

He pushes a lock of hair off my forehead, then slowly trails his fingers down my shoulder to my back. “‘It is some relief to weep,’” he quotes. “Ovid.”

I draw in a stuttering breath, picturing the tattoo in my mind. The delicate blue tears. The precise lines of the script in which Cass had inked that quote upon the shoulder blade where his hand now rests.

“It would be relief,” I say with an ironic smile. “If I could manage it.”

“It’s some relief, too, to talk about it,” he says. He strokes my hair, and despite everything, I feel safe. “Can you tell me who?”

I close my eyes, because I don’t want to think about it.

Except that’s stupid, because somehow, some way, I seem to always be thinking of it.

“Was it your brother?”

“No!” The answer is fast and vehement and true. “No, Ethan doesn’t even know about it.” I can hear the panic in my voice. Oh, god, if Ethan ever found out the real story … I shiver, as determined as always to protect my baby brother.

“I saw the way you looked at dinner after you got his text.”

“He’s coming in a few weeks. He wants us to go visit our parents. They’re in Irvine. They moved there from Brentwood when Ethan graduated from high school.”

“And that’s bad?”

I take a deep breath and remind myself that not only am I awake, but Jackson has handed me back control on a silver platter. I can talk about this, and I will be okay.

“Not Irvine—as far as I’m concerned distance is good. And I can’t wait to see my little brother. He was really sick when he was a kid, and we were incredibly close. He—he got better.”

I draw in a breath, determined not to think about the price of my brother’s health. “Complete recovery,” I say, hurrying on with my story. “And he’s been living in London for over a year now.”

“But not your parents.”

I look down and realize that I’ve twisted my hands together so much my fingers hurt. “The man—the one who raped me—” I take a breath, realizing that I haven’t said that word since I told Cass this same story. “He was a friend of my father’s. I called him Bob.” Just saying the name makes me shiver. “And I got a job with him when I was a freshman. My dad set it up. So I’m not very good with the family-dynamic thing. I kind of shut myself off, you know?”

He nods. “So you were fourteen?”

“Yes.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact. The only way to get through this is to just say it. Like I’m summarizing business documents. “It started then.”

I see the way he flinches at the word “started,” and I’m grateful he doesn’t ask how long it went on.

“And your parents?”

“I haven’t told anybody,” I say, which isn’t actually an answer to his question. “I told my friend Cass, but that’s it.”

“No professionals? No therapy?”

“I’m not interested in spilling my troubles to strangers. No way am I handing that kind of intimacy and control to someone I don’t even know.”