Page 24 of Ravaged Soul

Walking is awkward as fuck without my prosthetic, especially with the cuff of my sweatpants rolled up to mid-thigh on my right side. With great effort, I half-hop, half-shuffle to Ember’s door then push inside.

“Em? I’m coming in.”

The undrawn curtains allow lurid city light to spill into Ember’s sparse bedroom, revealing her thrashing state snarled up in the bedsheets. My heart throbs hard behind my chest bone.

My little astronaut.

I’ve barely looked at her of late, let alone said a single word. Every time I think about taking her into my arms, I see herbrother. I see the cost of my failure if I can’t find him. And I see what it’ll do to the girl I’ve secretly loved for two decades.

“Please, Tom,” she screeches. “No. Stop!”

Self-loathing rattles through my shattering heart. This is so stupid. She needs me, not my selfish doubts. Stuffing them down, I hop over to the bed then discard my crutch so I can drop onto the edge.

“Ember?”

She twists in her sweaty sheets, every inch of her contorted face lit by distant skyscrapers. Ember’s had punishing night terrors like this every time she’s slept this week. Hyland and Axel keep me updated.

“Em,” I whisper softly. “Wake up, love.”

When she doesn’t respond to my voice, I hesitantly rest a palm on her bare shoulder. She’s sleeping in a thin tank top, leaving clammy, scar-striped skin on full display.

“Em, baby. I’m here. Open your eyes.”

My fingertips begin to circle, caressing her shoulder, neck and whip-marked upper back. The old scars are rigid and gnarly underneath my fingers, my teeth locking tight to hold back my emotions.

Goddammit.

Feeling the physical remnants of all she suffered damn near breaks my self-control. The glimpses I’ve had of her body don’t do justice to the feeling of pain immortalised in her scarred skin.

I could kill Gael with my pinkie finger right now.

We’re dangerously close to losing her. Permanently. No matter what she says, I don’t know if she would survive the horrors of the cartel again.

Each stroke seems to pierce her terror, so I continue, mentally boxing up my caveman urges. Eventually, her screams fade to gut-punching, little whimpers. Shuffling closer acrossthe mattress, I prop myself against the headboard then ease her head onto my lap.

Her flame-red hair is hanging loose and soaked with sweat, but I couldn’t care less as I weave my fingers through the lengthy strands. Sometimes, I braided her hair for her as a kid. She used to hate her mother brushing the snarled knots.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “You’re okay.”

Even holding her like this feels like I’m tempting fate. She’s featured in my nightly dreams ever since she laid herself out in the boxing ring like a Christmas present and thoroughly fucked herself just for me.

Chest tightening at the memory, my fingers still in her hair. I need to get a grip. She’s shivering and quietly whimpering in my arms right now while I’m fantasising about how her pretty pink pussy greedily devoured her slick fingers, over and over again.

Yep, I’m headed straight for hell.

This is why I’ve stayed away.

Still stroking her hair, I whisper under my breath until her trembles subside, and the whimpers cease. At some point, my eyes fall shut too, lulling me into a calm bubble that holding her close provides.

At the feel of a soft hand sneaking beneath my t-shirt to rest flat against my stomach, my eyes fling open. Ember hasn’t moved from my lap, but her fingers are now splayed over my abdominals and lightly stroking.

My breath hitches.

What is she…

Her hand dances over each defined plane, fingertip swirling in the dark hair that dips into my sweatpants. With each movement, the iron-clad grip around my lungs tightens beyond the point of pain.

Apparently, my body is a traitor because every nerve is firing adrenaline deeper into my limbs. Even with only one hand onme, I can feel her all over. Her touch. Her scent. Her beckoning warmth. Everything I love and want, even if it can never be mine.