Page 50 of Keeping Her Under

He takes a swig of his beer, then softly asks, “Do you feel like you’re winning the war?”

I don’t say anything for a long time, too haunted by the memories.

But when I get up to put the pizza in, I murmur, “She makes me feel like I can cross No Man’s Land.”

His wistfulness is clear in his words. “She sounds beautiful.”

I smile. “She really is.”

Twenty-Eight

I’ve ventured down into the Grand Canyon and camped in the Outback under the stars. I’ve seen the look on a mother’s face as she’s held her baby in her arms for the first time. I’ve seen families unite after surgery – putting any airport goodbye to shame. I have seen beauty, and I have seen love.

But Summer Wintry…

She is something more.

I want to give her all that I am. All that there is to give. The villains in her books might burn the world for their girl, but I will hand it to her, gift-wrapped, tied with a bow, and beaten into fucking submission.

Walking over to her as she lies in her hospital bed, I feel my eyes starting to burn. I can’t recall the last time I cried, but seeing her with her breathing tube removed so her face is fully visible for the first time… my tears run freely. Holy fuck.

“I am unworthy.”

I fall to my knees at her bedside, and I cry in the breathtaking presence of my god.

By the time I’m able to stand again, my joints are stiff and aching, but my heart feels as if it’s tied to a balloon above me. My chest has never felt lighter, my shoulders never so free. Reverence flaring in my soul, I climb into bed with her and carefully undo her hospital gown. I want to worship her like she deserves. A goddess amongst the sins of man. The ray of light that beckons me out of the darkness I’ve cloaked myself in since I was six years old.

I am not worthy of her.

I am dirty.

And I am wrong.

I am every bit of soiled grease their hands left on me, however much Asher has tried to convince me that I’m not.

I can feel their fingers sliding against me.

Their lips.

Their tongue.

Their cocks.

I am dirty.

And I am wrong.

But she doesn’t care about the grime.

I see that now.

She lies here accepting me.

All of me.

Every dark, broken piece.

Every violent tendency.