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She turns away with a small, sad smile. “You asked me once why I was in therapy. And I guess you figured out it’s because I cut myself. I, um…I cut myself because I feel dirty most of the time. Like so dirty that if I could bleach out my insides I would. Sometimes it’s too much, too revolting, so I have to bleed the stain just to feel a little cleaner. Rachel and Tim, they adopted me when I was nine. They were a really nice couple, so I thought I’d finally found a good family that could love and care for me. And it was like that at first. They really doted on me. Especially Tim.” With her head still turned away I can only hear the steady sounds of her whimpers as she tries not to cry. “He worked a lot so when he was home he took over caring for me. I didn’t think anything of it at first, the way he’d ask me to leave the door open when I was showering. Or after I went to bed and he’d come in my room, lock the door, and just sit at my bedside. The first time he touched me, I was almost ready to fall asleep and I felt his hand between my legs…” She chokes on a sob. I make another effort to touch her but she shrugs me off. “Don’t…” She shudders and looks at me with watery eyes, desperate eyes. “Please don’t. If you touch me now I won’t finish. You need to know me, Maddox. You need to know the sort of fucked-up girl I am. You deserve that much.” She rakes a trembling hand through her hair, probably now adding to her stress by worrying about cussing, before she continues. She could say ‘fuck’ twenty times a day and I wouldn’t care.

“He made me think it was okay. I didn’t fight him, and I didn’t cry. I just let him do it to me. He said it was our little secret. Just for me and him. He told me if I ever told our secret, they’d send me back to the foster system. Return me like I was some puppy they no longer wanted. Every time he’d whisper that threat to me I told myself I was securing a place in the house. If I made myself accessible to him in this way then maybe he’d eventually see me as his daughter. It happened a lot afterward. Especially when Rachel wasn’t home. We never had sex. Just him touching me. And then one night when I was sixteen he decided he wanted more. He was drunk, I remember screaming and then Rachel came running in. He told her it was an accident and that he just stumbled into the wrong room. She believed him. She believed every single lie he’s ever told her. We never spoke about that night after. Even when I sliced my arm open and they took me to the ER. Nobody said anything. Nobody said a fucking thing.”

***

Aylee

What the hell am I doing? Is this really happening? I grab a small bit of skin between my thumb and index finger and press down hard. The bite of pain tells me just how very real this all is. But I’m still confused as to how we went from a moment of the purest form of rapture two people can possibly feel to me word-vomiting all over him. Is this my own form of sabotage? Revealing the vilest part of myself to him, letting him see just how truly filthy I am inside so that he’ll run before my demons push him away. I’m on my feet as quick as I can manage. My nudity is an embarrassment that I need to cover. I find my clothes a few feet away from the bed. I start with my panties and shirt, hastily slipping them on and completely forgetting about my bra.

Everything in me is screaming for me to retreat. I’ve said too much. Revealed too damn much to the one person who I never intended to see the ugliness coating my soul. I need to go. Need to get away. The faster I run, the faster I can get to my blade and…

“Aylee.” He blocks my path and when I try to sidestep him, he moves with me. When he reaches out to touch me, I swat his hand away.

“I need to go.” God, my voice sounds so strange. I don’t have much control over my emotions right now and the harder I try to remain calm, be poised, the faster I feel my composure crumbling. If he doesn’t let me leave, I’m going to burst, and I’m not sure I’ll ever stop.

But I guess he’s driven by determination, his own sense of control far more rigid than mine allows him to move toward me with marked focus forcing me to take a step back just to avoid his touch. “Let me go.”

He shakes his dark head and pins me with a too serious stare, “Not gonna happen.”

“Maddox.”

“Aylee.”

The instant he takes me into his arms, using strength to subdue but not hurt me, I fight him like he’s my enemy. I’m not a strong girl, and I’ve never felt the need or the urge for such violence. But with Maddox, I rage. I scratch and punch and kick until we’re on the floor. I use whatever part of my body I can to hurt him, even my teeth to catch the skin on his arms. This isn’t cutting. These emotions aren’t from sadness, they’re from something meaner; uglier. It bypasses the sadness completely and lets me tap into pure, raw, white-hot anger. And I sink into the attack like a well-worn pair of shoes. I battle my demons. I fight memories that have haunted me. I fight what was done to me. I punch and kick through the black tar pooling at the base of my soul, forever trying to pull me under. Through it all Maddox holds me, takes the brunt of my abuse, utterly calm in the face of my brutality—he’s a haven in the tempest of my fury. It’s only when I’ve completely exhausted myself, my breath ragged, heart galloping, pulse spiking with sweat staining my skin that I finally fall into the waiting arms of my anguish. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s not the one that hurts me. But Maddox is there to catch me. The first sob is followed by a second and then a third, and soon enough it’s all too much for me to count. Gasping for breath, I cling onto him.

“Shhh.” I end up underneath him on the floor. He passes a hand through my damp hair and kisses my forehead. He kisses my tear-stained cheeks and my nose and lips. My body is shaking from the violent sobs that shoot up from the deepest, darkest part of my soul and he drinks them. Covers my mouth fully and swallows my shame, my guilt, and what’s left of the anger he knows so well. In his kisses I taste his soul, and it hungers for mine in ways that go so much deeper than mere sex.

“I’m here. I’m here, Aylee. Nothing and no one is ever going to hurt you again. I promise you that.” His voice is low, torrid, and he whispers with such rough emotion against my wet mouth that not even God himself would doubt him. His hand in the back of my hair clenches to a fist and draws my head up slightly to meet his gaze. The intense emotion in his voice radiates in his pewter eyes; they’re too overwhelming for me to hold his stare but too powerful for me not to.

I know I shouldn’t. I know most would ridicule me, believing it’s because I’m so vulnerable right now, and that it’s a bad time but memories are made through time and right now making this memory with Maddox is as vital to me as the blood rushing through my veins. “I love you,” I whisper, and then I kiss him hard, slipping my tongue between his lips to stroke at his. If he doesn’t feel the same at least I’ll have this moment.

I expect nothing. I give him all of me because doing otherwise is not an option. My soul reaches for his and is simply content knowing that he’ll catch me. Or at least I hope he will. Please let him feel the same. I hear his growl, feel the vibration of it in his chest before he takes control of the kiss. He devours my mouth with hard, insatiable hunger that has his body crushing down on mine. Moving his hand between us, he slips my panties aside and slowly glides deep inside me. My legs grip his waist and we rock together with every in-and-out plunging motion of his hips. He grips my hair and only allows me a few short whimpers and gasps before he claims my mouth again. He’s driving into me, hard and deep, and I can hear my sweat-slicked back squeaking against the wooden floor as he drives long, deep, and hard inside me, coming up against that mind-blowing bundle of nerves he calls my G-spot. He rubs relentlessly and I see stars when he hits it—a breathtaking galaxy of stars centering in the universe between my legs.

“Aylee…” he utters with a tortured groan. “Aylee,” he calls again, the reverence in his tone filling my heart with the sweetest elation. He likes to pin me down and take control, which I happily relinquish. He takes my arms above my head, clenching my skin palm to palm and interlaces our fingers in a death grip. His grip is amazingly strong but I’m holding on just as tightly.