Fighting Fate (Fighting #7)(94)

“Don’t!” He shoots to his feet, wearing a sleeveless shirt. I can see the muscles of his arms flex. “Don’t you f*cking dare compare me to him.” He spits out the three-letter word like it’s a four-letter one, and I cringe, not needing clarification to know who he’s referring to. “You should’ve told me!”

My face burns and tears sting the backs of my eyes.

His fists flex and un-flex as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “I’ve been in here for hours, trying to work this off, and—f*ck!” He tosses his sweaty towel so hard it makes a whipping sound through the air. His stony expression softens, and the sorrow in his eyes breaks me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid—”

“Of what?” He tosses an arm out. “Of him?” He beats on his chest with a closed fist. “I never would’ve let him hurt you. Never!”

“No, not him, I was afraid that if I told you how bad things were you’d come home.”

He narrows his eyes. “Of course I’d come home. You were always mine to protect, you know that.” His shoulders slump as if all the fight has been knocked out of him. “He knew that I left, that you were vulnerable, and he attacked.” He reaches under a bench and flips it upside down. “Fuck!”

I jump back, startled by his anger. “That’s just it. You would’ve walked away from your dreams to clean up my mess. I couldn’t let you do that.”

“That’s not your decision to make, Axelle. You took my choices away from me where we were concerned.” He closes the space between us and cups my face in his hands, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “I love you, don’t you see that? I’ve spent my entire adult life loving you.” His hands gentle. “Nothing has changed.”

My eyes slide closed at the beauty and pain of his words. “Everything has changed, Kill.”

He shakes me gently. “No. Don’t say that. How can you say that?”

“We’re not the same people we were a year ago.”

He swipes my cheekbone with his thumb. “Maybe we’re better.”

“I live with my parents, Kill. You’re an international celebrity, and I’m twenty-one years old and working at my very first job, ever.”

“You had a rough year; that’s understandable.” He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “So you, did you…?” He licks his lips. “You lost the baby?”

“Yeah.” My heart still aches when I think about it; my mind often drifts to all the unanswerable what-ifs.

His arms wrap around me, my cheek presses against his sweaty shirt, and as much as I should be a little grossed out by it, I’m not. I wrap my arms around his middle and allow him to hold me close because, for those few seconds our bodies are pressed together, it feels like he’s right. That nothing has changed between us.

“You never should’ve gone through that alone,” he whispers against the top of my head, pulling me from the place we were just a couple of nights before he left for London.

I step back and out of his arms, needing the space to think straight. “I didn’t. Mom and Blake were there.” I lean back on the weight rack, but Killian rights the weight bench he tossed and offers it to me. I sit on it, and he takes the one just a couple of feet away. “I thought that was it, ya know? That I’d lost the only connection I had to Clifford and he’d leave me alone. The only problem was he didn’t believe I was really pregnant to begin with.”

Killian’s brows drop low and anger boils behind his eyes.

“When I told him, he accused me of lying, like I was trying to sucker him into a relationship.” I laugh at the absurdity of it now. “I lost the baby before I really started showing, so naturally it seemed to confirm his assumptions and the harassment got worse.”

“Why didn’t you go to the cops?”

“Because I was sick of being everyone else’s problem. I got myself into the mess. I wanted to get myself out. I was also humiliated. Half my professors now know what I look like naked, thanks to the photos Clifford posted all over campus.

“I didn’t tell anyone, not even my mom. Then one night when I was babysitting Jack and Mindy was out, someone broke into our apartment. He cut up my bed, my clothes, broke everything, didn’t steal anything though. I called the cops, and they didn’t find any suspicious fingerprints. But he left one of those pictures on my nightstand. I told the cops about it, which was”—my entire body blushes with the memory—“so embarrassing.”

“Did they lock the f*cker up?”

“I couldn’t prove that the photo came from him rather than from one of the many I found and picked up at school. I told them I didn’t keep the ones I found at school. I destroyed them as soon as I’d found them. They said they believed me but they couldn’t prove it and suggested I get a restraining order.” I shrug. “Once Blake found out…” I cringe, remembering his fit of rage. “You can imagine.”

“How is this * still breathing?”

“Get this…” I lean forward, elbows to my knees. “You can’t kill someone for harassment. Go figure.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“There he is…” I point to his mouth. “I see you in there, Killian McCreery.”