Authors: Kaylea Cross
On the other hand, no matter what had happened he would still want to be with her, so was it that big a deal if he were to find out? It wasn't as if he couldn't handle it. He'd been a cop for long enough, and after watching her being examined in the hospital and vomiting in the aftermath of a nightmare, he could deal with the rest of it.
His gaze went unerringly to the purple binding of the journal. It was like an elephant in the room with him. Christa would be gone awhile yet, the devil's advocate in him whispered. He could read the damn thing and put it away without her ever knowing, and then at least he'd have some idea how to handle things.
He moved onto his quads, wincing at the soreness there. He knew he should wait for her to tell him, but what if she never did? Some victims never talked about their attack. Ever. Those questions, those imagined scenarios would always be lurking in his mind, and then what?
It would eventually drive him freaking crazy, that's what.
Christa struggled with the key for a moment before pushing the door open. The house was quiet, and she wondered if Rayne had gone out for a run. “Rayne, are you here?” she called, heading for the front room. “I was going to make some cook— ”
The bag of chocolate chips fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a thud.
Rayne was sitting on the couch waiting for her. Her journal was lying on the coffee table in front of him.
Silence hovered.
“What's that doing there?” Her voice shook. “Why is my journal on the table?”
He met her glare of accusation evenly. “I was hoping we could talk about it.”
He wouldn't have read it, she told herself in panic. He wouldn't have done that to her. She turned away, gasping in shallow breaths. “I told you I
can't
.” God, didn't he get it?
“I know, and I understand that. But we do need to discuss it. If we don't, it'll ruin whatever's between us.”
He's right, but it's already too late. It's already ruined
. How could she have been stupid enough to think this could work? Stifling a sob, she spun around.
“Don't!”
His command brought her up short, freezing her like a doe in the headlights. The raw pain in his voice burned through her like acid.
“Don't you walk out on me now, Chris,” he challenged her hoarsely.
She stared back at him, a shaky hand covering her mouth, battling back flashes of the attack.
He started to cut off my clothes and I turned away, so he forced my head around to look at the photo
. Rayne must have sensed how fragile a hold she had on herself, because he whispered her name and started toward her.
“No.
Don't. Touch. Me
.” She held out a hand to ward him off and sank to the ground, wrapping her arms around herself. He reached for her again and she shrank from him, huddling in a trembling ball. Like a cornered animal with nowhere to go.
“Okay,” he said, backing up a step. “It's all right, I won't.”
It must have killed him to say those words to her, but he stayed where he was.
“I just want to help you.”
“You
can't
.” Didn't he understand that she wanted to die? That he could never fathom how she felt? She was contaminated, her skin crawling with shame. She couldn't stand the pity on his face, couldn't stand the thought of Rayne touching her when she felt so dirty. Inside her head she was screaming, a hair's breadth away from losing it and fracturing into a million pieces. No way did she want him to witness that final humiliation.
In the expanding silence his steadying breath sounded loud. “I'm sorry,” he rasped.
Sorry about what
? She wanted to yell it at him. Sorry because he'd triggered this fallout, the volatility she'd been so determined to keep buried? Sorry she'd been attacked in the first place? Sorry because he pitied her? The one thing she couldn't stomach was his pity.
Or was he sorry because...
God,
had
he read her journal? Her eyes narrowed, the blood pounding in her ears. No. No way would he betray her like that. She could barely form the words to ask him.
“Tell me you didn't... ”
His gaze bored into hers. “What do you think?”
What
did
she think? Did she trust him enough to believe he hadn't read a single word? She'd been out of the house and her journal had been right there. Would she have had the decency to resist such a temptation? That should be a straightforward answer, shouldn't it? Throughout all of this he'd been her protector, her hero. So why did it feel easier to believe that he had read it? Why couldn't she give him the benefit of the doubt?
He dragged a hand through his hair. “I can't believe you're even asking yourself whether I'm capable of that.”
“What am I supposed to think? I come in and find you on the couch with my journal on the coffee table in front of you. It wasn't much of a leap.”
“If you had any faith in me at all, you wouldn't jump to that conclusion.” His voice vibrated with suppressed anger.
She wanted so much to believe him, but she couldn't. It was as simple as that. And where did that leave them?
Nowhere.
Pushing to her feet, she took an unsteady step away from him that brought her up hard against the stove, trapped between unyielding metal and the roiling emotions of the man before her.
Rayne had to have seen the pallor of her skin, the stark fear in her eyes, but still he moved toward her, as if he couldn't help it. He stopped a few steps away from her as she shrank into herself.
“I warned you,” she accused, all the hurt bubbling inside her.
He stared at her, his jaw clenched, his eyes bright. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Christa— ” It didn't even sound like his voice.
“God, I didn't want you to find out this way.” Her voice shook.
A spasm of pain crossed his face. “God
damn
it, Chris! Find out what? It's driving me out of my frigging mind wondering what the hell he did to you.”
Did he really not know? Had he really not read her journal, her most private terrors in stark black and white?
Letting out a fragile breath, she shook her head slowly, feeling old and brittle. “It wasn't your fault. You were just the excuse he was looking for.”
“The excuse he was looking for?” His stomach dropped. “Wait a minute— you think he did that to you because of
me
?”
She simply stared at him, unmoving. He didn't need her to confirm it, he saw the answer in her eyes.
“Why?” He battled the need to either put his fist through the wall or haul her into his arms and never let go. He would have reached for her if she hadn't looked so terrified of him, like he was a man on the edge. He certainly felt like one. He couldn't comprehend what she'd gone through, why she thought he was the reason for it, but the images from his imagination burned into his brain, leaving him sick and helpless. “Oh, Jesus.” Guilt swamped him, closing over his head like quicksand.
“I'm sorry. I assumed you'd read my journal,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her waist. “But you're right. It'll only come between us if you don't. I can't tell you everything myself yet, but I'll let you read it if you want.”
“No, Chris.” He could barely speak. “I'll wait until you're ready.”
She went to the coffee table and picked up the notebook, staring down at her hands before coming back and holding it out to him. Her throat worked as she swallowed, the journal wobbling. “Here. Go ahead.”
He took it from her but didn't open it. Her courage humbled him, along with her readiness to forgive him, to believe he hadn't read the journal behind her back.
“Please, read it. It's better this way.”
He held her gaze, in case she changed her mind. Did he have the guts to find out why she thought he was responsible for provoking some psycho's attack on her? “Are you sure? I mean totally sure? It might feel like the right thing to do now, but will you resent me for it? Regret it later?”
“More than if I let you blame yourself for this for the rest of your life? No way.”
He went with her into the front room and they settled on the sofa, Jake jumping onto the cushion beside him. Could he do this? Should he let her do this? To hell with it. She wanted him to read it so he'd better go ahead and get it over with.
He opened the cover, his heart beating faster. My Assault, she'd entitled it, and he flinched.
Better toughen up.
He took a breath. Jake laid his head on his knee and looked up at him with worried brown eyes.
He rubbed the furry ears and turned the page. He'd already seen the crime scene, but experiencing the events through her eyes brought them to life. The images ran together as if he were watching a movie. Her attacker grabbing the end of her braid, hauling her to the floor, tying her hands and dragging her kicking and screaming upstairs to her room, tying her facedown on her own bed. He could almost feel the rope cutting into his own wrists and ankles.
He had to swallow hard to force the lump down his throat. If she'd endured this, he told himself, then he could damn well read it without chickening out. He turned to the next page. The words seemed to jump out at him, slamming into him like fists. His stomach twisted.
He put the picture of Rayne and me beside the bed and made me look at it. When I tried to tell him Rayne wasn't my boyfriend he called me a liar and almost choked me, then pulled out his knife and told me every time I closed my eyes or looked away from the picture, he would hurt me. He started to cut off my clothes and I turned away, so he forced my head around to look at the photo. I tried so hard not to show I was scared, but he knew I was. I screamed, I couldn't help it. I thought he was going to kill me.
Oh, Chris
. He ached for her. The sentences of neat handwriting flowed into each other, one after the other as he compelled himself to continue, to stay calm.
He tried to force himself into me, but he couldn't, and then he lost it. He kept screaming and swearing, hitting me. I turned away again because it hurt so much, and that's when he sank his teeth into my shoulder... blood dripping down my back...
Goddamn bastard. His vision blurred and he gripped the edge of the couch.
Breathe, breathe
. His hands trembled in impotent fury, but he made himself read further.
... I was looking at Rayne in the picture because he'd threatened to take another chunk out of me if I didn't. He said, “I can hurt you in so many ways, and your boyfriend's even bigger than me. Look at how helpless you are right now, and he's twice my size. Imagine the damage a guy his size could do. Worse than this, sweetheart. And once he had you he'd throw you away like all the others
.”
That's when I realized he'd come after me because he was jealous of Rayne...
“Fuck!” he exploded, surging to his feet, his hands raking through his hair. He wanted to break something. He panted, a red haze swimming in his eyes. She'd been looking into his smiling face in the picture frame while she'd been tortured and almost raped. He'd never felt so volatile in his whole life, a dozen conflicting emotions pounding at him, a chaotic mixture of rage and anguish so powerful it made him dizzy. His body screamed in primal rage for him to
do
something, to track the bastard down and rip him apart until this pain went away.
He swallowed hard, found her frozen in place, eyes full of trepidation. Dammit, she
should
be afraid. The rage was building, pulsing and boiling under the surface of his skin. He couldn't afford to lose control, to scare her even more. He loped around the room like a caged animal, unable to look at her, sucking in deep, shuddering breaths, trying to clear his mind. Water flowing from a fountain. Snowflakes drifting. Rain falling on the roof.
He focused on the images until he'd calmed down enough to process it all, then sank onto the couch. He glanced up with hollow eyes and found Jake cowering behind the armchair, watching him skittishly.
Rayne made himself finish the journal. When he read the psycho's parting words to her, nausea churned.
Now every time you look at your cop boyfriend you'll think of me
.
He looked like a shellshock victim. The anguish, guilt, rage and pity, all swirling in an awful maelstrom in his hazel eyes made her want to bolt past him and run outside, onto the beach, into the ocean. But the pain radiating from him held her immobile. No way would she leave him like this. Needing to ease him, she reached deep inside for the strength to face him.
The silence stretched out between them like an invisible barrier.
His gaze bored into hers. “You weren't ever going to tell me, were you?”
Pain lurked behind the accusation, but she kept her eyes on his. “I don't know.”
“And all this time you've been carrying that around in your head? God, you should have hated me, been scared of me. Terrified— ”
“No. You've never done anything but protect me. How could I be afraid of you, blame you?”
He gave a snort and turned away, but she shot out her hand and grabbed his forearm, the muscles under her fingers tensed like steel, so taut they were trembling.
“It wasn't your fault,” she repeated in a whisper.
He aimed his tortured gaze at her. “Really?” Rage and self-disgust made him lash out. “Because I just read what he did to you, and he seemed to think it was.”
Unable to reassure him with words, she slid her hand down his arm and twined her fingers around his.
He didn't budge. “God, I'm so sorry.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Sorry... how pathetic is that?”
“I'm sorry too, because I knew it would hurt you to find out.” She squeezed his fingers.
“Chris, I... ” His voice was low, shaken. “Come here.” He held his arms out to her. “Just... please come here.” Hesitantly, she took a step toward him.
His arms came around her, tightening as they locked her to him. Quiet tears spilled down her cheeks as she burrowed into his body, his strength surrounding her, protecting and comforting her. She wound her arms around his back and held on, answering his unspoken need for solace, pressed her hot cheek into the curve of his shoulder. He pulled at the neckline of her shirt and traced his fingers over the crescent scarring her shoulder where another man's teeth had marred her delicate skin. “Oh, God,” he whispered against her hair, shaking, turning his face into the curve of her neck.