Page 26 of Say You'll Never Let Go

She was always a safe haven for him before, coming to him in his darkest moments to provide relief and encouragement. Now, she brings his worst fears to life.

She’s in the cell, her hands tied together like his were at first. The rope chaffing a red ring into her pale skin.

Silas drags her away, leaving him a sobbing mess on the concrete floor, the burn of the whip sizzling hot enough he can hear it through the wall.

Kara is all he has left, the only thing he cares about, and Silas makes it his job to strip away what keeps him human. Losing her would be like snipping the last tether that holds him here, so that’s what his brain crafts into a nightmare.

He throws himself at the door, screaming her name at the top of his lungs until he’s hoarse and dry. Then she’s back like she never left, pressed up against the wall while an awful memory plays out on someone he loves.

“This is how shit works around here,” one of them whispers in her ear. “You give a little to get a little. Want more food? More blankets? Time outside? An easier opponent in the fighting pit? Then just go with it.”

A wandering hand disappears between her legs and he wants to vomit. He remembers how he head-butted that asshole for getting handsy with him, watching blood flow from a cracked nose and leaving the other man passed out on the cell floor.

Wade lost a back tooth for his objection, then a toe, and then he stopped objecting.

“Wade…”

She’s calling out his name so clearly that he’s certain she’s real this time. He fights harder to reach her until something connects with his back and his eyes fly open, jerking on reflex to strike out at whatever might be close. The cell transforms into the bedroom of the blue house, and the Kara from his nightmares is replaced by the one who is still safe and untouched.

“You were dreaming. It’s okay, it’s not real,” she tells him, from the safety of the bed clear across the room.

He’s rolled off the mattress and started a fight with the chair she normally reads in. His foot is wedged against the wooden leg and the wall, and he gingerly pulls it free.

Moonlight shimmers across her face, transforming her into a hologram for a brief moment. He gasps, convinced he’s not really awake. Silas is about to march in and replay another one of his punishments on repeat and he won’t be strong enough to save her.

His fingers find the hair tie around his wrist, rubbing so frantically he’s surprised it doesn’t snap apart under the pressure.

“I have a tattoo on my lower back. Did I ever tell you about that?” she asks, offering up a fact he desperately needs to clear the fog.

“No.”

“Not something you might have made up?”

“No.” He shakes his head, exhaling hard, but still gripping the bracelet under his palm.

He’s not primed to explode anymore, so she takes a chance to come closer, sliding down beside him. Her bent knee could touch his if tilted just right, but it stays still.

“Didn’t take you for the tattoo type.”

She smiles. “I got it during those years you were stationed in Maine. Never said anything about it. Didn’t feel important.”

He snorts on reflex, surprised he can be amused by anything after that nightmare. “What is it?”

She’s good at this. Know what buttons to push to calm him and make everything seem normal again. Safe. Easy.

“An infinity symbol. Very original, I know. It looked pretty in the booklet of examples and I just wanted to feel something. Do you wanna see it?”

Of course he wants to see it. He nods, mesmerized, as she turns to lift her shirt, exposing the smooth expanse of her lower back and revealing a small black infinity symbol.

What happens next is something neither of them are prepared for. His fingertips brush the warmth of her skin on an impulse to touch that catches them both off guard. She twitches the barest bit in surprise and he flinches backward, shocking himself that he’d done that at all.

There’s an apology ready on his tongue for assuming permission while he grapples with the fact that he touched her and the world didn’t end. The two of them have only touched during goodbye hugs and reunion hugs. They aren’t tactile with each other. Maybe because a part of him has always feared crossing a line with his best friend if he gave himself the barest bit of slack.

“No, it’s okay,” she says quickly. “You can touch me. I want you to.”

In any other situation, her request, coupled with how she arches her back, offering herself up with eager anticipation, would come across far differently. Right now, in the shadow of everything they’ve been through, it’s only an attempt to harness an unexpected step in the right direction.

It’s easier if he’s the one touching her instead of the other way around. He’s in control and there’s a comfort in that he wishes he didn’t need.