Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (63)

“What did you regret?” His voice is soft and gentle, in sharp contrast to my tone of rising hysteria.

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You said earlier that you let yourself go with me, and that you regretted it. So did you regret the nightmares? Or did you regret leaving?”

“I—” My breath hitches, and I look away.

“No,” he says gently. “Talk to me, Syl. I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”

“I’m not asking for help.”

“No, you’re not. But you’ll have it anyway.”

I close my eyes and take his hand, then close my fingers tight around his. “Leaving.” I take a breath, then open my eyes and look at him. “I regretted leaving every single day. And at the same time, I didn’t. Because staying would have destroyed me.”

“Oh, baby.” He pulls me close against him and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I don’t know what’s hiding in your nightmares, but I will help you fight them.”

“I thought you were an architect, not a shrink.”

“I know a thing or two about the lingering scars of childhood,” he says. “My childhood was nothing like yours. But it still qualified as shit.”

I look at him, this man I’d always seen as so strong, and the vulnerability I see makes my heart twist. “Will you tell me?”

“I’m a bastard.” He shrugs. “That’s pretty much the sum total of it. And I mean that in the original sense of the word. My mother had an affair with a married man. Got pregnant. Had me.”

“So you never knew your dad?” As much as I often wished I’d never known my father, that still wasn’t a fate I’d want for a child. “Oh, no. I knew him. Knew my father. Knew all about his other family. I was two when my half-brother was born, and I knew every goddamn thing about him, and I wasn’t allowed to say a single word.”

“My god.” I’m trying to imagine what that would be like and failing. “My god,” I say again.

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. You could say it pissed me off, especially when I could see so plainly how much of my father’s attention my brother was getting, and how very little of his time was spent with me. I got angry. Very angry. The kind that explodes out. The kind that’s dangerous.”

I can’t help the way my gaze darts to the cut on his cheek.

He sees and flashes a rueful grin. “I turned anger into fights.”

“Jackson …”

He takes my hand, then kisses my palm. “And I channeled control into sex.”

I lift a brow. “Did you? I hadn’t noticed.”

“I guess I’ll have to try to be more obvious.” He gently strokes the hand he still holds. “My point is that when I realized I couldn’t fight all the shit that was in my past—in my head—I embraced it instead. You need to do the same.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. Fight back. You have nightmares? Don’t run from them. Battle them. You’re strong, Sylvia. Strong enough not to be defeated by your own head.”

“It’s not my head,” I say. “It’s my history.”

“And what is history but a memory, and usually a false one at that? What’s that saying? That history is written by the victor? Write your own history, Sylvia. And when you do, make yourself the hero.”

I don’t answer, because I’m not sure I want to talk about it, much less think about it.

Instead, I deflect by reaching up to trace my finger across the scar that runs from his brow to his hairline. I’d noticed it at the premiere, and had yet to ask him about it. Now that he’s mentioned his fights, I can’t help but wonder what flash of anger translated into this injury.

“When?” I say nothing more. I know he will understand my question.

“About twelve hours after you told me to walk away.”

I only nod, not trusting myself to speak as my fingers drift down to gently touch his cheek. “This one is new.”

“After I met your friend Louis,” he says, confirming what I already suspected.

“Does the other guy look worse?”

“I assure you, he does.”

I meet his eyes. “Maybe you need help, too. You can’t just go on beating people up.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I promise you I’m not accosting random tourists on the street. I belong to a gym. There’s a boxing club. And no, I’m not talking about the kind of gym that has a smoothie bar and twenty-eight elliptical machines. Heavy bags, speed bags, free weights.”

He strokes my cheek. “I’m doing just fine.”

I picture the kind of dirty, grimy gym you see in so many movies, where guys are getting their faces smashed in. It’s not a picture I like. I lift my hand to cover his so that I feel the warmth of his skin on my face. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Oh, baby. They can’t hurt me. Don’t you know that you’re the only one who’s ever managed to tear me to shreds?”





fifteen


I wake with a jolt, my heart pounding in defense against the lingering clutch of fear.