Playing for Keeps (Heartbreaker Bay #7)(83)

“Turns out maybe I do know a little bit about love after all. Or I’m learning anyway.”

For a beat their gazes locked, and then he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her into him, tucking his face into the crook of her neck. She felt the heat of his bare torso and smooth, sinewy back and inhaled the innate scent of him that was better than anything she’d ever experienced. When his chest hitched, she tightened her grip, trying to give him everything she had. They remained like that, locked together, him drawing from her warmth and strength for once, instead of the other way around. She didn’t want to ever let go.

Since that night they’d adopted Lollipop, and maybe even far before that, she’d taken comfort from him. A lot of comfort. And now she was finally able to give him some of it back. “I’m so sorry, Caleb,” she whispered, her eyes stinging.

He nodded and held on, and she knew with certainty that they were working toward something pretty amazing, something she’d never imagined having for herself.

“Talk to me,” he said gruffly. “Take me out of my own head.”

“Okay . . .” But she couldn’t think of anything. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“You. Tell me something about you that no one else knows.”

He’d never asked anything of her, not once. And maybe it was that this strong powerful man could let himself be vulnerable with her, to her, that he could let himself need her, that made the difference. She took a deep breath and attempted to do the same. It was time, past time, to give him more of her, maybe even some of the dark parts she’d worked so hard to keep to herself.

So she stared out into the dark night over his head and began to talk. “You wondered why I don’t have a lot of tattoos.” He’d asked several times now, and she’d avoided answering. “I love creating tattoos,” she said. “I also love applying my art to people and giving their skin a voice. And I love the few tattoos I have, very much. Each represents far more than art to me, and because of that, I wanted to honor them by making them my only ones.” She hesitated. “Two of them cover scars.”

Caleb lifted his head to meet her gaze, his own dark, serious, and very intent on hers. “The ones on your thigh.”

“Yes,” she said. “And as you also know, there’s a third, more recent scar I didn’t cover.” Because this was hard, much harder than she’d even imagined, she rose off his lap and moved to the window. The room was still dark, the only light came from the kitchen as she stared out into the night, her back to Caleb. “I was a cutter,” she murmured. “Which means—”

Caleb’s hands gently slid to her hips. He’d come silently up behind her, entering her atmosphere. His heat warmed her back before his chest touched it, his arms slowly wrapping around her.

“I know what it means,” he said quietly.

She didn’t turn to face him. Couldn’t. She’d spent a lot of years being ashamed of herself, though she’d eventually gotten past that. But it was still difficult to talk about. “I started young. It’s hard to explain why because I’m not that same scared, lonely, frustrated, angry, hurting teenager anymore, but—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Sadie. Ever.”

Relief had her shoulders dropping from her ears. Emotion at his deep understanding of her clogged her throat. “I know,” she managed. “And thank you. But you’ve shared yourself with me, and I’ve held back. You’ve been patient, and that means more than I can say. You haven’t rushed me. But . . .” She closed her eyes. “I have a dark side to me, Caleb. Sharing it is hard, but I feel like you should know.” There was more, of course, but she wasn’t ready to reveal it. Didn’t know if she ever would be. “I cut on and off for five years,” she said quietly.

A low sound of regret escaped from deep in his chest. “No one knew?” he asked. “No one was there for you?”

She turned to face him. When she raised her eyes to his, she saw genuine concern and a carefully banked anger that she knew wasn’t directed at her. “No,” she said, “but to be fair to my family, I was very good at hiding it. And even better at pushing them away and keeping them out of my hair. I wasn’t suicidal.” She needed him to know that. “It was almost the opposite. I was so sad and angry and hurting, but I had nowhere to put all of it. Cutting was . . . like releasing the emotions. I can’t explain it better than that. I cut in the same two spots high on my thigh so I could hide it. And I didn’t tell anyone because I knew they wouldn’t understand, they’d think that I wanted to end it—” She shook her head. “But then, slowly, all those terrible, negative emotions inside of me drained away enough for me to breathe and I stopped. And when I knew I was past ever needing to go back to it, I covered the scars with the two tattoos you’ve seen. Heart over mind, courage over fear. It was like giving myself a second chance. A clean slate, with no reminders of where I’d once been.”

“I loved those tattoos from the moment I first saw them,” he said, pulling her into him. “But now that I know the meaning behind them, I love them even more.” He brushed a kiss to the sweet spot beneath her ear. “Are you going to tell me about the third cutting scar, the one you didn’t cover?”

Hello to yet another dark place deep inside her. She drew a deep breath. “I had a relapse.”