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Elliot felt miles away, standing across the island from me. The cold stone of the counter prevented me from falling into Elliot’s touch which would turn me into the person I was when in his arms. I needed to be the Calliope I was in New York. Strong. Unfeeling.
He’d respected the distance I’d created like he always respected my boundaries—one of the sexiest things about him, though that list was incredibly long.
The crash of the barstool flying into the wall didn’t make me jump. I’d trained my nervous system not to outwardly react to unexpected sounds or actions made by unstable men. The men I dealt with thrived off a flinch, a whimper, a widening of the eyes.
But I was sufficiently shocked to see such an outward, aggressive response from Elliot. He was always so level-headed and calm, not violent.
I felt it, radiating from him. Fury, furniture hurling notwithstanding. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched, chest rising and falling with his heavy breathing, shaking as he stared at the hole in the wall he’d created.
I stared at it too.
A tense few moments of silence reigned.
He’d rendered me speechless. A worthy feat. Though I wasn’t bothered with trying to produce words. I needed them from him. To know what was going on in his brain. To hear how much he hated me.
“I’ll repair that.” He was still facing the wall, so I assumed that he was speaking about that and not the wreckage in my mind.
Stood to reason as he couldn’t know about the wreckage in my mind, a good thing too since it could never be repaired. I’d made my peace with that and had gotten really good at pretending my broken pieces didn’t exist.
“No need,” I cleared my throat. “I know a guy.”
“You do know a guy,” Elliot nodded. “Yourguy. I fix what I break, Calliope. And I apologize for breaking that in the first place. I shouldn’t have…” He didn’t finish the sentence, running his hands through his curls.
I watched his hands travel, clasping the back of his neck for a few seconds before he unfurled, standing at his full height, turning to stare at me.
Then he rounded the counter, stalking toward me with purpose. I mentally braced for his touch, but he fell short, hesitating. Elliot never hesitated.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” he asked softly.
My insides roiled. There it was. I was damaged to him now. The rape victim who had to be treated with care because another man had taken what should’ve only been given.
Fuck, I hated that. How gentle, how thoughtful and kind Elliot was. The kind of man he was. I knew I’d never be able to ignore my broken pieces, not with him. Because he fixed what he broke, and I saw in his eyes that he’d make it his duty to fix what he didn’t break.
“Of course, you can fucking touch me,” I snapped, refusing to sound soft or weak.
Elliot’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile, his expression still grim. His hands latched onto my hips, thankfully not gently. The pressure was biting as he lifted me onto the counter, my legs instinctively spreading for him.
His body pressed into mine as he took hold of either side of my neck, eyes blazing with determination.
“Calliope.” He ground out my name like he was pulverizing stone to dust. “I want your attention, your rapt fucking attention when I say this.” He paused, standing in between my legs, grasping on to my neck like it was a wooden door floating in the ocean in the wake of a shipwreck. As if he didn’t have my rapt attention just by existing.
When he seemed satisfied, his grip loosened somewhat, and his thumbs started gently massaging my skin.
“I heard everything you said,” he murmured. “Every detail is seared into my memory, every inflection, every word you fuckingsaid. And you’re a capable woman who can tell a story without leaving anything out, without inferring the wrong meaning. So trust me when I say I understand your actions, what you think led to you deserving…” His strong baritone faltered, and his hands squeezed slightly.
His eyes closed as he took in a long breath.
“I understand what made you think youdeservedto be assaulted,” he said when he opened his eyes. “And I understand that you made some questionable decisions. Yet I also believe that you are smart enough to know who you were working with. I can’t begin to comprehend the world you were operating in, but I trust that you know that I’m intelligent enough to get that it was some bad shit.”
When he stopped speaking, it took me a few seconds to deduce that he needed some kind of affirmation that I did indeed absorb everything he said.
Since I was hanging on his every word, bracing for impact, I absolutely did absorb everything he said, if not how it would lead to our inevitable breakup.
Though it stood to reason that he was setting up a soft landing for me, since he was that kind of man. Not that any kind of landing on a surface where Elliot was no longer in my life would be soft.
It was necessary, though, and I could survive difficult, painful things. I’d cut my feet on the broken glass of a vase in my house after being raped and beaten in order to use the bathroom. I stitched together my split skin with a dislocated finger. I could handle a breakup with what might be the nicest man I’d ever encountered.
“Believe me when I say, with all of my heart, that you didnotdeserve that,” he hissed. “You are a good person. I know one when I see one. You’re a good person who made bad decisions, and that’s allowed.” He stroked my face with impossiblegentleness. “You’re allowed to make mistakes, Calliope, and you shouldn’t have to pay in fucking blood when you make them.”