Page 103 of Hurt

A small fist slammed into Roland’s right cheek. It had been so fast that he almost missed it. The hit didn’t really hurt. Willow hadn’t put much power behind it, but Roland winced anyway. He reached up to touch the tender spot.

“That was for hitting my brother and not answering my calls,” Willow said with trembling lips.

Roland watched the anger bleed out from her face and her shoulders slump. Shuffling forward, she gently knocked her hand aside and stood on tip toes to kiss the spot she had hit.

“And that’s for saving his life,” she whispered softly against his skin, lips grazing the bruise she left behind.

Roland wrapped her in his burly arms, enveloping her in a hug they both needed. Willow sniffled against his chest, trying hard not to cry but failing. Her arms were at her side as she rested her entire weight on Roland.

“Are you okay?” Roland asked when he didn’t know what else to say.

“No,” Willow answered weakly. “How am I ever supposed to be okay again?”

Roland didn’t like that. He adjusted his grip so he could pick Willow straight up and carry her into the house. Willow didn’t protest, just wrapped her limbs around Roland and held on. With some dexterity, he managed to get the door closed and locked before carrying Willow to his bedroom.

The house was a one-story, one-bedroom affair. A spacious bedroom was off the kitchen, complete with an attached bathroom.

He tried to lay Willow on the bed, but she wouldn’t disentangle her limbs. Hanging off of him like some kind of leech, Willow seemingly did not want to be parted from Roland.

Resisting the small woman was futile, and Roland had no intention of even trying. He laid down beside Willow and let her hide her face in his shirt.

“Tell me what happened,” Willow commanded with all the authority her watery voice would allow.

Roland did. He wondered if he should soften the blow somehow—leave out details or purposefully keep things vague. But innately, he knew Willow would hate him for it. She needed to hear. All of it, or at least as much as Roland knew. Which, truthfully, wasn’t much.

“Sid called me to ask if I was okay,” Willow said after Roland had finished. “I thought he was asking about the whole drugging and kidnapping thing. But then he told me about Kurt and the Weaver Estate, and I just…” She shook her head and her fists curled in Roland’s dirty shirt.

“Why would he do that?” Willow croaked. “How could he just…I need to see him.” Willow finally lifted her head and looked up at Roland. Her cheeks and nose were red from sniffling, and her eyes were swollen from crying.

Roland stroked Willow’s head, grateful when she closed her eyes and leaned into the touch rather than recoil from the rings on his fingers.

Willow turned her face so that her wobbly lips rested against Roland’s palm. “He was hurting so badly, and I didn’t notice. I just…I just kept hoping things would get better, and they only got worse. I thought if I just…if I was just there, he would eventually come back. I should have pushed him. I could have maybe locked him in a room until he finally talked to me. If I had done that then—”

“This isn’t on you,” Roland said sternly, turning Willow so their eyes could meet.

Willow crumbled a little, closing her eyes to prevent more tears from falling. It didn’t work. A few leaked out the corner of her eyes and caught on her dusky lashes.

“What do I do now?” Willow asked brokenly. “I can’t lose him.”

Roland watched the tears trace their way down Willow’s beautiful face. He hated it. That tear was tangible proof of the pain Willow was feeling. Kurt was the cause. The person who was directly responsible for his lover’s pain. It should be an easy solution: He would eliminate Kurt from the equation.

But it was tangled. Kurt was the problem, but he was also the solution. Roland didn’t understand it, and he didn’t know how to proceed. He wanted to fix this. Use his hands—his weapons—to make everything right again. To make the world a place fit for Willow.

“You will be you,” Roland finally said, hugging Willow. “You’ll save him the same way you saved me—that smile of yours can heal.”

Her bright, unabashed smile that lit up a room. It never faltered. Not when Roland was covered in violence and gore or when he didn’t understand an emotion. It never judged him or turned away. Willow wore her emotions like Roland hid his. She sparkled with creativity and mirth—a lure for the dark and broken to bask in her light.

Willow sniffed and looked up at him. The tears were no longer falling, and her trembling had stopped.

“Is that all it takes?”

“Yes. You are more than enough.”

Her eyes still hurt when she woke up. There was a brief moment of confusion when she saw the dawn light splashing through large windows. This wasn’t her cramped little apartment, and this bed was far too large and empty. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes and took in the room.

It was a spacious bedroom. Or rather, it was so empty it gave the illusion of space. Besides the bed, there was a dark dresser pushed up against a gray wall. That was it. No pictures, art, or anything personal. Not even a wayward sock was left adrift in a sea of plush carpeting.

Shivering, she pushed the expensive feeling sheets off and brushed some tangled hair from her face. Willow felt greasy. She needed a shower.