No Perfect Hero(66)

“It’s not the only one. Or even the worst. I’ve learned to deal, Hay.” I turn my head to brush my cheek against her wrist, the faint flutter of her pulse moving against my skin. “Shit, sorry. This is a little heavy for pillow talk.”

“It’s okay. I get it.” There’s a smile in her voice that I don’t need to open my eyes to see. “At least now I know we’re really not that different.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My mom didn’t exactly abandon me...but it felt like that when she died. Leukemia. I was so mad at her for leaving me and my sister alone with him. It took a long time to stop hating her for something that was out of her control.”

That him, the soft crack in her voice, prompts me to open one eye, watching how the hazed shadows of afternoon fall over her face through the blinds, dwelling in her eyes. “Him?”

“Our father,” she answers bitterly. “The alcoholic.”

“Oh.” Then it clicks – oh, shit. “Is that why you seem so uncomfortable around Flynn?”

“Mr. Bitters?” She shrugs, her whole body moving soft and slow against me. “A little, maybe. I just can't look at him and feel much contempt like most people do with alcoholics. It’s a disease, and it’s one that hurts them so much...but it doesn’t change the fact a lot of alcoholics hurt people, too. So, yeah, I get all mixed up. Sympathy and resentment and confusion. Whether I ever loved my dad or hated him.”

That protective anger for her returns, bubbling in my blood, but I yank on its leash as hard as I can and try to keep my voice neutral. “Did he hurt you, Hay?”

She’s quiet for a long time. Almost too long.

And then she bows her head, pressing her brow to my shoulder, her hair hiding hers, her voice small and muffled.

“Sometimes,” is the only word she'll say. I can’t stop myself.

Wrapping both arms around her tight, I sweep her into me, shifting my body like I can shield her from past demons if I just use my bulk to take the blow. Every dose of reckless pain she’s ever felt.

“Sorry,” I say. “No man should ever do that shit. Not to his daughter, not to anyone.”

“It’s fine,” she whispers against me, still trembling. “I learned to survive. So did Marie. We...we learned to fend for ourselves, even if sometimes it meant leaving the other person to take care of herself. We had to. We couldn’t both go down when one of us could be saved.”

I inhale slowly, trying not to let my hands form fists. Not that they'd do any good on a dead man.

“Dad was a cop who knew people, so protective services never showed up. No matter how many teachers we confessed to, or how many anonymous tips were called in. We just learned not to ask for help because it never seemed to come.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t deserve help, Hay. That you don’t deserve help now.” I’m about to explode with the depth of feeling rushing through me right now. This wild, overwhelming need to just make everything perfect for her, give her everything she could ever need to be happy, safe, and alive.

I’m burning with it. Scared I'll scorch the woman in my arms into ash with the coarseness racing through my veins.

“Warren?” She looks up at me.

“It’s all right to need help, Hay. That’s why people have friends, lovers, families. So we can all lean on each other. Pull together when it’s too damn hard to do the pulling alone.”

“Yeah?” she whispers, and her small arms creep around me, her hands curling against my back, clutching for dear life. “Who do you lean on, then?”

“Don't really know,” I admit. “I don’t. Still trying to figure that out, maybe.”

Hay lifts her head, looking up at me with red-rimmed, glimmering eyes, still too proud to let out those tears she’d spent earlier, holding her smile bravely. “I’d say you could lean on me...but you won’t tell me why you need to, will you? I know. Because you’re trying to protect me from the dangers of Heart’s Edge.”

It’s not Heart’s Edge that’s dangerous.

It’s Haley.

Because that smile, that soft and hinted plea for me to lean on her, to let her be something to me is too rare. Too precious.

Fuck, she could destroy me with the slightest touch.

Far more easily than Dennis Bress ever could.

I don’t have answers for her. Not one that'll satisfy this ache in my heart that wants to let her in but won't endanger her. Not one that'll ease the pained look in her eyes.

So I give her one thing right now – the promise of forgetfulness. A sweet distraction that lets both of us stop thinking about old pains and just live in the now, the moment, the pleasure of her body with mine.

I kiss her like it's gonna be the last.

And as I slowly ease her back down to the bed, savoring how small and lush and supple her body is under mine, I try to show her with every touch that it’s not her I’m shutting out.

Not by half.

I touch her like I'm engraving myself on her skin and branding her on me.

Like I can somehow ease the thorns, making this new thing between us both painful and wonderful, the agony of every prick bleeding with pleasure.

It’s pure torture, watching how her glistening lips part as I kiss and bite and lick her jaw, her throat, trailing her pulse with my mouth.