Falling into You (Falling #1)(42)

I’m through the door and cradling her in my arms in the space of three heartbeats. She fits on my lap, against my chest, in my arms so perfectly. She’s shuddering, trembling, every muscle flexed. I brush her hair back with my fingers, cup her cheek, feel the tension in her jaw. The noise is coming from deep inside her, dragged up from the bottom of her soul. It breaks my heart. Wrecks me.

“Nell. Look at me.” I tip her chin up, and she jerks away, burrows against my chest, as if she wants to climb between my ribs and nestle in the spaces between my heart and my lungs. “Okay, fine. Don’t look at me. But listen.”

She shakes her head, and her fingers grip my bicep so hard I’ll have bruises later. She’s crazy strong.

“It’s not okay,” I tell her. This gets her attention; it’s not what she was expecting. “You don’t have to be okay.”

“What do you want from me?” Her voice is ragged, desperate.

“I want you to let yourself be broken. Let yourself hurt.”

She shakes her head again. “I can’t. If I let it out, it’ll never stop.”

“Yes it will.”

“No it won’t. It won’t. There’s too much.” She judders, sucks in a fast breath and shakes her head in a fierce denial. “It’ll never stop coming out, and I’ll be empty.”

She tries to climb off me, and I let her. She tumbles off the bed, falls to her hands and knees on the floor, scrambles away and stumbles into the bathroom. I hear her vomit, retch, and stifle a sob. I move to stand in the doorway and watch her. She’s got her forearm gripped in clawed fingers, squeezing so hard trickles of blood drip where nails meet flesh.

Pain to replace pain.

I step in front of her, take her chin in my hand and force her to look at me. She closes her eyes, jerks away. The sight of her blood makes me panic. I can’t watch her hurt herself. I wrestle with her hand, but she won’t let go, and if I force her, she’ll only hurt herself worse.

I need to know what’s driving this girl. What’s devouring her.

“Tell me.” I whisper the words to her, rough and raw in the unlit bathroom, gray dawn filtering through dirty glass.

“He’s dead.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s everything.”

I sigh, deeply, glare at the top of her head. She feels it, finally looks up at me with red-laced eyes. Sad, haunted, angry eyes.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Nell.” The words are grated and too harsh. I regret them, but keep going. “Tell me.”

“No!” She shoves me back so hard I stumble.

She sinks backward, shrinking down into a ball in front of the toilet, next to the tub. I kneel down, creep forward as if approaching an injured, skittish sparrow. I am, really. She’s clawing her nails up and down her thighs, leaving red, ragged scratch marks. I catch her hands and still them. God, she’s strong. I heave another sigh, then scoop her up into my arms again and carry her into the bedroom.

I cradle her against me and settle onto the bed, slide down with her until her head pillowed on my chest and I’m holding her tight, squeezing hard, clutching her wrists in one of mine.

She’s frozen, tensed. I take long, even breaths, stroke her hair with my free hand. Gradually she begins to relax. I count her breaths, feel them even out, and then she’s limp on top of me, sleeping, twitching as she delves into slumber.

I wait, stay awake, knowing what’s coming.

She moans, writhes, begins to whimper, and then she’s awake and making that fucking horrible high pitched whining noise in her throat again. I hold her tight, refuse to let go. She struggles against me, waking up.

“Let me go!” She growls.

“No.”

“Let me fucking go, Colton.” Her voice is tiny, scared, vulnerable, and vehement.

“You let go.”

“Why?” A hitch in her voice.

“Because holding on to it is killing you.”

“Good.” She’s still struggling, thrashing against my hold.

“‘There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to ruin yours.’”

She stops thrashing and laughs. “Did you just quote The Princess Bride at me?”

“Maybe.”

She laughs, and the laugh turns into a sob, quickly choked off.

I sigh. “Fine. How ‘bout I start?” I really don’t want to do this. “When I came to New York, I was seventeen. I had five dollars in my pocket, a backpack full of clothes, a package of Ritz crackers, a can of Coke, and nothing else. I knew no one. I had a high school diploma, barely, and I knew I could fix any engine put in front of me. I spent the first day I got off the bus looking for a mechanic garage trying to find a job. No one would even let me apply. I hadn’t eaten in two days. I slept on a bench in Central Park that night, at least till the cops made me move.”

I have her interest, now. She’s still in my arms, staring up at me. I’m speaking to the ceiling, because her eyes are too piercing.

“I nearly starved to death, to be honest. I knew nothing. I’d grown up privileged, you know my dad, how much my parents have. I’d never even had to make my own food, wash my own clothes. Suddenly, I’m alone in this insane city where no one gives a shit about anyone else. Dog eat dog, and all that.”