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A lump chokes me, tears welling in too many numbers to hold back with a sniff. I close my eyes and bury my nose into his side, hiding from the world, just for a moment.

Kincaid’s voice is gentle as he asks, “Is he the one who abused you?”

“He didn’t… not likeyou.I never had a cut or a scar.”

“Sometimes you flinch and I’m not even sure you’re aware of it.” He cups my shoulder. “Other times you freeze like you’ve turned to stone.”

He strokes my hair, combing out the strands with his fingers. The rhythmic movement is calming, and I give a contented wee hum.

“How did he hurt you?”

This time, I tilt my head so I can make eye contact and Kincaid drags me farther up the bed so I can rest on the pillow, noses almost touching. The soothing motion of his large hand keeps me calm as I sort through the jumble of what to say.

“Just… controlling everything I did and everyone I saw. He told me if I ever came home with so much as a hickey, he’d lock me into a chastity belt and throw away the key. When he thought I was having impure thoughts, he made me kneel in penance.” My joints ache at the reminder. “A few minutes would be fine, but he made me sit like that for hours, upright, on a hardwood floor. Sometimes he’d scatter rice to make it more painful. Dried kidney beans one time.”

I whimper and Kincaid folds me into an embrace so tight it feels like he’ll never let me go.

Where it would once have made me panic, calm now suffuses my muscles, sinking to my bones. The cocoon of his arms is a thousand times safer than curling on the backseat of my car, underneath the duvet, not letting a single chink of light into the darkness.

It’s not just safety, it’s strength.

The rhythmic throb of his heartbeat is the world’s best metronome, giving my racing thoughts a place to focus, a refuge for them to catch their breath.

“That was the only thing where the bruises were visible, but kids bruise their knees all the time. The other… he would press on the arteries in my neck until I fainted, waiting for me to regain consciousness so he could do it again. Once, he tied my hands behind my back and put a noose around my neck, leaving me balancing on tiptoes on a high stool while he went out for the night.”

“And where was your mother?”

“If she intervened, he’d hurt her worse than me.”

His eyes are steady on mine. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll deal with him, Freckles. He won’t ever hurt you again.”

I gulp.

This is where I say it.

This is where I take the black weight that’s been pressing on my shoulders and share it with him.

He’ll use it against you. He might say he’ll never hurt you, but violence is as violence does, and Kincaid is far more violent than Mike ever dreamed.

I screw my eyes shut, willing myself to talk despite the doubt.

My heart says he won’t, but every nerve screams the opposite. Memories crowd my brain, comparing, contrasting, working to find the evidence to prove he’s not the gentle giant holding me, promising to protect me.

“You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I know.”

Don’t you dare trust him.

Don’t you tell.

This thing between us hit at a thousand miles an hour. Moving so fast, the last few weeks have been filled with so much conflict and emotion, they stretch out like years.

But even a cautious approach can’t protect me from the stark truth. That the only way to tell for sure if someone is trustworthy is to trust them. To trust them and let them show who they are.

“When I got accepted into Westlake, Mum and I planned our escape. We were careful and thought we’d covered our tracks… but he still found us. I came home from school one day and he—”

I break off, fighting for control. It takes a few minutes, and Kincaid doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t try to speak for me.