It was easy to stay unobserved—though less so than the previous years because everyone had seemed to take it upon themselves to look out for her after she’d been raped.
She’d. Been. Raped.
Drugged. Beaten. Violated.
Raped.
And…
She was still here, still in therapy, still in the support groups.
And she still felt dirty, used.
Violated.
It had only been a few months, her therapist had told her. Give it time.
But how long was she supposed to feel like this?
He got a few moments of pleasure…
And she’d gotten this.
An aching, throbbing, wound inside her. A venomous snake curled in her belly that threatened to strike at any moment. Skin that never got clean—
“Mel.”
She blinked.
Realized Teresa and Jeremy were now kissing like the newly engaged couple they were, realized she was staring but not really seeing.
Realized Asher was standing behind her and talking to her in that careful tone that did nothing to help and everything to piss her off.
Everything.
So careful.
So tentative.
Most everyone had tried really hard to treat her like her normal self, to include her and keep her close and, yeah, to watch out for her. But they hadn’t made her feel weak or like broken glass.
Most everyone…except for Asher.
Always with the guilt in his eyes and the regret in his bearing and the pity on his face.
It made her sick.
“Are you sleeping?” he asked, still gentle.
Fuck no, she wasn’t sleeping.
She hadn’t slept without nightmares, not since…
But she wasn’t going there. Not with Asher. Not with the man who didn’t want her before the rape and now just worried after her because he somehow felt responsible.
Newsflash, it wasn’t his fault.
Even if she had gotten on the dating app after he’d turned her down.
The point was, she’d made the choice to do that. She’d tried to step out of her quiet, safe box.
It had backfired. Spectacularly.
But…it still wasn’t Asher’s fault.
“I’m sleeping great,” she lied, turning from the kissing couple, but not turning enough to fully face him—to face the man who’d seen her broken and bloody and raped, to face the man who’d held her through her nightmares for weeks on freaking end.
Until she’d finally gotten a clear look at his face and realized what she’d been doing to him.
Destroying him slowly from the inside out.
His guilt eating at his veins, his regret gnawing at his bones, his pity straining his muscles until they’d reached their breaking point.
“Mel,” he murmured.
“I’m fine,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. Instead, she glanced at his bottom lashes.
Close enough.
Close enough that no one saw the difference.
Because most people didn’t actually look each other in the eye, they just connected for quick glances before looking away.
The bottom lashes were close enough—she’d learned these last three months.
Especially, when she pretended to be normal. That was the bonus of having been quiet before the rape.
People didn’t look too closely at the quiet ones.
Except Asher.
He studied her closely. Uncomfortably closely.
Today, his rough fingers drew along the edge of her jaw, tilting her head up, and since the assault, she didn’t allow herself to shy away from touch, from a man’s touch. It would be too easy to never allow it again.
With Asher, though, it was different.
She had to consciously hold herself away, consciously keep her distance, lest she allow her body to crave his touch.
To crave him.
He didn’t want her.
He’d made that crystal clear before the rape, and after, well, she didn’t want someone who only saw her as a victim, as a belonging to protect, a broken object to piece back together.
Who only wanted her because something had happened to her.
Not because of who she truly was inside.
But because she didn’t pull away, he stepped close, capturing her eyes, holding her gaze, studying her like he could see every thought inside her head.
And then his hand was sliding over her cheek, along her throat, down her arm.
His fingers were wrapping around her wrist. Then sliding across her palm and weaving through her own.
Warm.
He was warm and strong and…
The bolt of feeling through her belly was a sick mix of pleasure and poison.
Enough jarring juxtaposition that she didn’t fight him when he led her onto the front porch, when he closed the door behind them, when he drew her down to sit on the top step beside him.
“You’re not sleeping,” he murmured, his free hand lifting, his thumb brushing lightly beneath each eye.
More touch.
More pleasure and poison.
“Don’t,” she whispered, drawing back.
He didn’t argue—just immediately let her go, let her retreat.
But he didn’t move away, didn’t leave her alone and go into the house.
And they stood there. In silence. In pain.
Watching two happy people celebrate the beginning of their lives together.
“What can I do?” he whispered after a long, strained silence.
Nothing.
There was absolutely nothing he could do.
This was her burden to carry, to shoulder, to dispose of…maybe.
Or maybe it would always be with her.
She curled her toes down, digging them into the soles of her shoes, glad her reaction was hidden beneath her boots, relieved he couldn’t see the tell that she was holding it together just by the tips of her toes. “I’m fine.”
A brittle laugh. “You’re not.”
The words just slipped out. “I wish I’d never called you.”
He went stiff, as though an electrical current shot through his veins. “Why?” he rasped, agony in every word. “Why would you say that?”
“You saw me like that,” she murmured, eyes stinging. “You saw me, and now we’re connected and…”
“What?” he prompted when she didn’t finish.
She shook her head. Then…just let the words come. “And you didn’t want me before, didn’t want me then. You’re only hanging around now because I called you that night and you think it-it’s some freaking moral obligation to help me.” Her voice grew stronger the longer she spoke. “But you don’t really want me. Not me. Not this broken woman that I’ve become. And”—she turned, glared up at him—“I’m not some used-up puzzle you have to help piece back together. I’m fine on my own.”
Charged silence greeted her words.
A muscle flexed in his cheek. “I don’t see you that way.”
“Liar,” she hissed, jabbing a finger in his chest. The anger, oh God, the rage, it boiled beneath her skin, desperate to be released.
And he was there to take it.
He’d accept it. She knew he would.
But she bit it back.
Because that wasn’t her.
“Mel.” A whisper before he stilled again and for a long moment, he just stared at her. “I’m not a liar. I think you’re—”
She shook her head, and thank God, he stopped talking. But, worse, his hand cupped her jaw, slid his warm fingers down to her throat. Pressed in lightly. And…she slipped into the cold, into that frigid apartment, into the memories that froze every cell in her body.