Page 28 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Now

The physical pain of Sparrow dragging me down the hall by my hair was almost as excruciating as the rug burn setting fire to my exposed skin. I tried crawling to keep up but kept tripping as he picked up speed.

I fell onto my side, losing my glasses, then screamed in agony as he crouched and adjusted his grip before continuing to haul me along. The skin on my palms was raw, and the heels of my bare feet burned as I attempted to dig them into the carpet.

“Fuck!” The tearing sensation along my scalp felt like nails scraping across my brain.

A clump of hair rolled down my cheek. “Sparrow,” I panted, flipping onto all fours again.

He lost his grip on me, and my face crashed into the floor.

I scrambled to my feet, backing away as blood trickled down my forehead.

“Let me explain,” I cried as he stalked toward me, his chest heaving, teeth bared. Sparrow grabbed me by the throat, spinning me around before backing me toward the bedroom. I stumbled, nearly taking us both to the floor. But his grip was unyielding, his strength inhuman.

I tamped down the fight response surging inside of me.

It felt primal, involuntary, and it took everything in me to go against it.

My goal was bigger than staying alive, bigger than trying to save myself.

If I had to die to prove my love to Sparrow, then I would.

I wouldn’t raise a hand against him in violence.

He shoved me into the room, my left shoulder blade banging into the open nightstand drawer as I fell backward onto the floor. An electric shock of pain seared through my body, sharp and hot. I struggled to my knees, coughing, sucking in air as I clutched my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I wheezed as Sparrow charged past me.

“It wasn’t his fault.” I wasn’t sure if he’d hurt Joshua for this, wasn’t sure if he could, or how that would even work.

Would he take all his toys away? Permanently break his fire truck?

Or would he ensure Joshua never saw the light of day again—or rather night, as it happened to always be.

“I made him do it. It wasn’t”—I coughed again—“his fault.” I should never have taken him from his room. I should’ve locked him back inside and searched for the basement myself. That way, Sparrow never would’ve known I was there, allowing me to visit Joshua again. I was stupid. So. Fucking. Stupid.

The sound of something falling, followed by the tearing of fabric, interrupted my spiral into regret. Sparrow tore into the curtains. The rods lay bare on the floor.

“W-what are you doing?”

He kept working, fury tightening his face.

Straining toward the foot of the bed, I tried to pull myself up using one of the posts. Sparrow’s head snapped my way, as if he’d forgotten about me until then. The sheer tattered pieces floated out of his grip when he stormed over to drag me into the sitting area.

The armchair rocked back on its hind legs from the force he used to push me down onto it.

The chair settled, and I recoiled from the venom in his gaze.

He was out of breath, his hair loose and wild, and sweat covered his forehead.

I’d never seen him this upset, this out of control, not even the night he beat me to a bloody pulp.

I didn’t look away. Not even when the tingling in my scalp worsened, and I swiped at the blood leaking from it. Everything burned. My lungs, my throat, my head, hands, feet, and limbs. But the fire in Sparrow’s eyes raged brighter.

He marched over to the scraps of curtain again, freezing in place as he noticed the condition of the bedroom. I’d made a mess of it when searching for a way to get to Joshua. Sparrow glared over his shoulder at me, his lip curling into a snarl.

Grabbing the strips of fabric, he headed back toward me.

“W-what are you doing?” I tried to stand, but he shoved me down again.

“Fight me, and you won’t like what I do to you next,” he warned. Pissing myself became a real possibility as the danger in his tone skated along my body. Terrified, I nodded, doing nothing when Sparrow began tying me to the chair.

He wrapped a piece of torn fabric around my chest. The curtains were long, so he was able to loop them around twice before tying them at the back of the chair. He’d pulled it tight enough to make breathing even more difficult than it already was.

Panicking, I tugged at it. Sparrow grabbed my wrist, bending my fingers back until I screamed. I didn’t dare move another muscle as he secured both hands to the arms of the chair.

Nausea rolled through me as I absorbed my current predicament. Was it worth it? Was love worth this ?

I blinked away the tears and shame those questions brought on, only for feelings of inadequacy to take their place.

Of course you couldn’t protect him. You’re scared. You’ve always been scared. A terrified little boy.

I couldn’t hold back my emotions any longer. It was either I willingly let them out, or I allowed them to drown me from the inside.

“My n-name is Miguel Ramirez,” I stuttered, needing to say it even though he already knew it.

I needed the reminder of who I was, and I needed him to see me as human.

As a man with a name and a past, a man who was loved and who loved deeply.

I needed him to hear my truth, see my flaws, and care about my fears.

Because whether Sparrow killed me or not, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could survive this, and I needed him to know who I was before the end.

“My mother’s name was Gabriela.” Tears blurred my vision as Sparrow worked diligently to bind my ankles to the feet of the chair. “I’m scared of the dark and the cold,” I whispered in a voice I hadn’t used since I was a kid, “but only when they’re together.”

Sparrow didn’t let that stop him. He worked until I was bound so tightly that my fingers began to tingle from lack of circulation.

“I’ve never met anyone stronger and more protective than my husband, Quentin, or anyone more gentle and compassionate than Elliott. I’m trying to be strong and protective and compassionate and gentle now, but I’m scared,” I cried, biting down on my trembling bottom lip. “So fucking scared.”

Once satisfied that I couldn’t get free, Sparrow worked on straightening up the room.

“I’m weak,” I rasped, embarrassed, a river of tears falling.

Sparrow stacked the books back into the armoire, then moved on to righting the nightstands.

“I don’t do well on my own. I’ve always known I would be nothing without Quentin.

If I was ever strong, it was because he made me feel that way, not because I ever was. Not really.”

Sparrow’s long strides took him to the closet next, and I continued as drawers opened and closed.

“Then Elliott came along.” I heard the awe in my own voice. It made me smile through my tears. “And I got a chance to be brave too for once. I got to be brave for him.”

The sound of metal hanger hooks meeting the mounted rod met my ears.

Clank…

Clank…

Clank…

Sparrow worked swiftly. Did his speed and anger boil down to control? His need to have everything just right? Or did he need to get out of here before my words started to have an effect on him?

“No one ever knows everything about anyone,” I said, barely above a whisper, not sure if Sparrow could still hear me. “We all have our secrets, our shameful insecurities. We all have things we’d rather not face.” Elliott hadn’t been the only one hiding; his secrets were just so much bigger.

“Do you believe that no one sin is greater than the other?” he’d once asked us as we hung out in bed. He’d ask random questions like that sometimes. Elliott struggled with his faith, struggled to let go of it completely, even when he thought he already had.

“No. Killing someone is definitely bigger than stealing a piece of chocolate,” Quentin had responded, staring off into the distance. I knew it was an image of his father he was seeing right then.

But as I looked back on things—on life—I realized bad things created more bad things. Bigger bad things. Small offenses led to greater ones, like a domino effect.

Quentin’s father did bad things. Things that shaped Quentin, shaped his vigilant need to protect, shaped his fear of being left or having something he cared about taken from him.

I did a bad thing that left me feeling powerless, feeling unworthy of love, and so I kept a secret that could have freed Quentin. Instead of forcing us to face the truth, I continued to benefit from his fear.

Elliott had bad things done to him. I wasn’t clear on what all those things were yet, but they made it easy for our love and acceptance to swallow him whole. We were the air he breathed, his heart, and the blood that pumped through his veins. And he was ours.

Our love was built on top of a mountain of bad things.

Sparrow barreled from the closet, scooping up the leftover scraps of curtain before heading for the bedroom door. He didn’t even spare me a glance.

“Please!” I shouted, thrashing in my restraints. They wouldn’t budge. “Don’t leave me here! He wouldn’t want you to leave me here!”

Sparrow paused by the door, and I squinted to see him better. His shoulders tensed as if those words had broken through to him. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part. Either way, I couldn’t keep the next words from tumbling from my mouth.

“For so long I’ve wanted to end it all,” I confessed, feeling split open, raw, and at my lowest. “Not a day has gone by since I lost you that I haven’t thought about ending it all like… like my mother did,” I whispered shakily.