He sets me on the edge of the bed, kneeling next to me.
“I’m thinking there’s more to this than your arm,” he whispers. “Am I right?”
I nod.
He unbuttons my shirt, slowly pushing it off my shoulders. It falls behind me, and he leans back slightly. He presses his lips together, rage flickering over his face like candlelight.
I follow his gaze down.
My stomach is already a map of bruises. I’m surprised they showed up so fast.
He traces one. “Did he kick you?”
I force myself to nod again.
“I’m going to kill him,” he repeats. His eyes meet mine. “What else?”
I touch my throat.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
He lifts my arm.
Ian’s teeth left a red, angry mark. And right above it, the word I couldn’t bring myself to read: whore.
“I’m sorry,” I say over the lump in my throat. “I’m so s—”
Caleb leans forward and kisses me.
It’s infinitely sweeter than the emotions I know he’s feeling. I can taste his guilt, and I want to cry again.
“Do not apologize.” His voice is low. “You’re staying here tonight.”
My eyes widen. It’s against the rules, I almost say. The lump in my throat blocks all noise, but he reads my mind.
“Fuck the rules, Margo. You’re staying.”
He storms off. The door to the basement slams closed, and then I’m left alone with my silence.
My breath hitches. It hurts to inhale, it hurts to move… I examine my arm.
We need to clean the bite. Get the marker off.
Whore.
It mocks me. My mother. My past.
I scratch at it. There’s dirt under my nails.
I notice it with vague detachment. In fact, I’m feeling rather removed from it all. I mindlessly scratch at my arm, trying to get the ink out of my skin.
Caleb comes back. He tucks his phone into his pocket and rushes over, grabbing my wrists. “Margo.”
He hauls me up, ever so gently, and carries me into the bathroom. He sets me on the counter, flicking on the light.
I wince when he takes my wrist and pulls my arm straight. I’ve managed to gouge my arm. Blood trickles down my hand, dripping off my finger.
“We’ll get it off,” he mutters. “I told Robert something bad happened. I ran out of his class when you didn’t show up.”
There’s guilt in his eyes.
I felt it on his lips. That was one thing, but seeing it?
Not ready for that.
I quickly look away, focusing on his shoulder.
“He said the way to get to you was through me.” My voice is raspy. I don’t have to tell him I’m not talking about Robert. “I’m your soft spot.”
He flinches.
I keep my attention on his face as he gets a washcloth soaked in warm, soapy water, and runs it over my arm. I let him care for me. God knows I can’t do it myself.
He takes his time cleaning my arm. And then he runs the washcloth over my shoulders, up my neck. Down my chest. He unclips my bra, tossing it over his shoulder. Resoaks the washcloth.
Water runs down my body, and I shiver.
He washes away Ian’s harshness. His hand on my arm, around my throat. His Italian fucking leather loafer in my stomach.
And when Caleb’s done, he steps between my legs and kisses me softer than I could’ve imagined.
But… we’re not meant to be soft.
I lean into him, stifling my moan of pain. He holds me back, hands featherlight on my shoulders.
“Kiss me like you mean it,” I demand.
He hesitates.
“Make me forget.” I won’t beg him. Yet, I told myself that with Ian, and I caved. I didn’t want a rich asshole to kill me in the woods.
Caleb’s lips part. I press forward, catching his lower lip in my teeth.
And.
I.
Tug.
He lets out a groan.
But… he doesn’t give in like I hoped. Instead, he pulls back, shooting me a look.
“You’re trouble.” He shakes his head and motions for me to stand. His gaze goes to my chest.
I forgot I was shirtless.
Slowly, I bring my arm up and cover my breasts.
He frowns, but for once, he doesn’t argue. He goes to his dresser, fishing around in a drawer for half a second before he’s back with a t-shirt and a pair of shorts.
I take the clothes, bringing the shirt up to my nose. I don’t know why I do it with him watching me. Maybe I secretly like keeping him off guard.
Maybe it isn’t a secret.
His lips twitch when I inhale.
It smells like him. I slip the shirt on, the fabric concealing my face as I raise my arms. It hides my wince. He leans against the doorframe. I drop my skirt and slide his shorts on. If I wasn’t hurt, I’d be enjoying this more.
As it is, Lenora and Robert are probably going to kill me.
“What did you say to the Jenkinses?” I ask.
We both sit on the couch. There’s light coming in through the narrow windows toward the top of the basement walls. The windows are ground level. The curtains are open. I forgot, momentarily, that it’s still daytime. School is probably only just now getting out.
He smiles. “I actually called Eli. He’s going to have Riley talk to Lenora. But I told Robert in school that you and I were leaving.”
“I should get my phone. Make sure Riley’s okay with it. Lying.”
“I think you need rest,” he murmurs.
He puts his arm around me, and I lean my head on his shoulder. He turns on the televison, some mindless reality show about an international race, and we both kind of zone out. Every once in a while, he leans over and wipes a tear from my cheek.
I don’t know why I’m still crying.
“Painkillers.” He jumps up minutes or hours later. “I should’ve thought of that. Are you hungry?”
It feels like my internal organs went through a meat grinder.
I shake my head, and he frowns.
“Soup?” he asks.
“I’ll try.” The truth is, I might throw up. It could go either way.
He returns with Ibuprofen and a bowl of chicken noodle soup for me, and a sandwich for him. I sip the broth so he’ll stop staring at me.
Boys eat a lot. I knew that in the back of my mind from the past. Temporary foster brothers, boys at other schools I went to. But seeing Caleb inhale a sandwich, while I can barely keep down broth? With his physique, it just isn’t fair.
He’s got abs. The V that girls rave about. A trim waist and muscles. Hell, his face is gorgeous, too, but it’s the body that sells the whole package.
And he’s sitting next to me. How’d that happen?
“When’s the other shoe going to drop?” I ask.
He blinks. “What?”
“This is nice. Like, you’re being nice. Something is bound to go wrong.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to go wrong.”
I straighten as much as I can. “So, what? We’ll live happily ever after and get married and have babies—”
“Whoa,” he says, taking the bowl from my hands. A little had sloshed over the edge, onto my fingers. “I think you’re afraid.”
I jerk back. “Afraid of what?”
“Happiness?” He scowls.
“Do you even like me?”