Confessions in the Dark (13 page)

An older man, still numb with horror as he traced those letters across the granite that marked her grave.

He was here. Now. Steadily creeping on toward middle age with nothing to show for himself but debts and years and promises he was terrified to break. Serena made him want to, though, and that might be what scared him most of all.

Maybe that was the answer, then. He didn't have to go back decades. He could start with the beginning of
their
story.

His knee gave a twinge as he took the handful of labored steps toward her window. He looked down through the glass at the pavement a half-story below. And then he turned back to look at her.

“It's funny, you know.” He heard the words before he felt them pass his lips, the weight of so much silence making his voice sound twisted and strange. “The first time we met, you asked me how this”—he gently tapped his crutch against his leg—“had happened to me.”

Confusion marred her brow, her shoulders dropping by a fraction. “What—”

“I told you, and you said I was a hero.”

“Because you are.”

The laugh he'd nearly let out before escaped him now. “I'm really not.” His fingers flexed, grip tightening until the padding on the handles of his crutches creaked against the strain. “I just get so
angry
sometimes.”

“You saw someone getting mugged—”

“And I lost it. You don't...You can't know.” Even now, the boiling in his blood was set alight by just the memory. “The boy whose bag was stolen, he looked like such a target.”

And Cole knew how that felt. That's how he had been—younger and smaller. Mouthy and smart and too perfect of a temptation to resist.

He gritted his teeth. “I used to be that target.” He met her gaze, staring into the ocean of her eyes and wishing he could float away along the calmness of her sea. But he couldn't. Not here. Not now. “I told you how I knew what was happening to Max.”

“So you were bullied. So were a lot of people.”

“I was bullied until I
snapped
.” He had to look away. “Day after day after day.” The scar on his lip seared and burned. “They never stop, and I had to...I couldn't...”

And he was there. In that alley halfway between his parents' flat and school, caught and pushed—they always
pushed
. Glass sliced into his lip, and his hands were bloody, gravel ground into his knees and palms. He remembered the silent seething, the resentment, the bruises that never healed.

How it felt to let it all go. To fight back. Impact and fists, and they were his blows this time, every hurt returned, and he'd been lost. A fucking savage.

“I put one boy in the hospital.” His throat went raw, the bitter taste of bile rising at the image. “I nearly ended up there myself.”

He'd nearly been expelled. The classroom had been his only refuge, and he'd come so close to losing that, too. Meetings and suspensions, and through it all he'd remembered every shove. Every time they'd driven him closer to the edge, but he had been the one to throw himself over.

In the end, it was only his fault.

“They never bothered me again,” he said. “But it didn't matter.”

The genie had been let out. He'd crammed the anger and the bitterness beneath his skin, but it had become this living thing. It never left him.

It never stopped.

“I never had many friends.” Even in the neighborhood where they lived, full of families just like theirs, he'd been the outsider. “It used to be because I was strange, but after that it was because I was mental, too.”

“You're not—”

“I am. I was.” Normal people didn't have this crimson current running through their veins. They didn't have to clench their fists to try to keep it all at bay.

They weren't too terrified to have children or to touch a woman for fear of what they'd do.

“Everyone knew it,” he said. “Even when I went to university...”

Oxford had been a breath of fresh air, a chance for a new start. No one had known, and yet it had felt like
everyone
had. The scar on his lip may have been the only visible one, but there were others carved deep beneath his flesh. They'd shaped him. Isolation and whispers and stares—he hadn't known how to talk to people. How to be any more than he had ever been.

So he'd thrown himself into his studies and into tearing his own body apart. He'd shot up a foot in that final year of secondary. Had started to fill out, and newly arrived at university, he'd put the new mass to good use. He'd run and lifted and done anything he could to quiet the thread of his own thoughts in his brain. He'd gotten his first tattoo.

And he'd listened. He'd learned.

He shook his head. “It wasn't until I got to graduate school that anything changed.”

When he'd arrived in Princeton, it had been as a whole new man, with a new attitude and a new resolve. Maybe it had been the accent and maybe it had been his looks. Maybe the careful study into how to speak and act and be.

No one had seen. No one had suspected. Least of all...

“Helen.” He choked, throat squeezing, but somehow he managed to get her name out. To force those aching syllables onto the air, where they hadn't lived or breathed in years. Because he hadn't been able to utter them. Not until now. “That's where I met Helen.”

And he had to look away for this part. Tucking his crutch beneath his arm, he lifted one hand to his heart and pressed his palm to the ink there. To the symbol of her he'd carved into his ribs.

A shaky exhalation sounded from behind him. “Was that your wife's name?”

“Yes. She was...”

Brilliant. Smarter than he had been, and it had been so effortless, the way she'd drawn him into the circle of their peers. They'd met at some sort of a graduate mixer, and he still didn't know how the awkward mathematics student had fallen in with the beautiful historian, but he had. Lonely nights in his own apartment had given way to drinks at the pub with one or both of their departments, and through all of it, Helen had been by his side.

And when she'd touched him...when he'd kissed her...

“She changed my life.” He closed his eyes, wanting to live in that memory forever. “I thought she'd changed
me
.”

But she hadn't. Beneath it all, the same fire had still burned, and it left the same ashes in its wake.

She'd started to grasp it, too, eventually. He'd kept the embers of his anger tucked safely away, but they'd found their way out more than once. Some arsehole spouting racist bullshit in a bar and Cole losing time until he was standing there, spitting and fighting against restraining arms, knuckles bruised and spattered with blood. A pickpocket trying to make off with someone's purse.

Helen, trying to tell him he could have a normal life.

He looked out the window again. Into blackness. Into nothing.

“We didn't fight all the time.” They'd hardly fought at all until they'd married. But the day in and the day out—he hadn't always been able to keep it restrained. “She gave back as good as she got.” God, but she'd been a firecracker. Her spirit had soothed him and it had riled him up, and it had left him turned around in every possible way. “And we always managed to work it out.”

They always had.
Always
.

“Until...”

And it was there that his words failed him. His knees shook beneath him, the bad one screaming, and his palms went suddenly wet.

For the longest time, he stood there, scarcely certain how he managed to keep his feet, his vision blurring and his head a mess, the memory spinning out. Consuming him.

Finally, Serena's voice broke through. “Until...?”

All at once it was like the dam inside him burst.

S
he couldn't move.

Cole—this solid mountain of a man—was shaking to pieces in front of her while she had frozen where she stood, feet glued to the floor, throat thick and eyes stinging.

What he'd been through. The way he saw himself.

And, yes, there were parts of it she'd glimpsed in their time together. He swore like a sailor and didn't seem to know how to deal with his own frustration. But he portrayed himself as some sort of monster who responded to the pitchforks of his villagers with violence and blood, when all she had ever seen was him turning those very blades against himself.

Right now, it looked as though he'd pierced his own heart.

His gaze was far away, his face ashen, and her chest throbbed. She wanted to go to him. To wrap him up and never let him go. Even if he never wanted what she did, surely there was some kind of comfort she could offer. There had to be something she could
do
.

But her limbs wouldn't move. She hugged herself tighter, shivering against the pain etched into his face.

And then it got worse.

“She never lied,” he said, the words breathless and harsh. “She told me what she wanted in all these little ways, but it never seemed like the time. She never seemed serious.”

Serena's mind raced. “She wanted...”

“A child.” Just like that, his gaze snapped into focus, and all the power of that stare fell squarely on her. “Can you imagine it?”

The vision of it came to her in a rush. Cole was all rough edges and tight restraint, but the idea of him holding a baby—a little boy with his shock of dark hair and his deep, black eyes...A pang squeezed her heart until it threatened to burst.

Because he didn't want that. He couldn't even fathom it.

“I can't.” He shook his head, and his throat clicked, his voice stuttering. “She didn't understand. She didn't see. I can't. I can't bring a child into a world that preys on the weak, a world that's this ugly, and even if I could...
I
couldn't...”

The urge to comfort him swept over her anew. “Cole...”

“I tried to explain it to her, but she wouldn't listen. I can't be trusted. When I get angry, I lose control. I'm not...I might...”

Before her eyes, the entire image inverted itself, until he wasn't a man whose edges were softened by the son or daughter in his arms. He was
this
man. Lost and floundering and caught in memories of lashing out.

He thought he'd hurt a child.

He thought he'd hurt
her
.

It was like a bubble expanding and popping inside her lungs. Was that the answer, then? The step she'd been missing in this dance of theirs—the one where every time they brushed too close he pulled away?

If it was possible, he'd flashed even paler, his knuckles bone-white around the handles of his crutches. As he took a swaying step, she finally snapped out of her trance. She unwrapped her arms from around herself, holding her hands up in front of her chest like she could catch him. Like she could do anything at all. “Maybe you should sit down.”

But he just kept pressing on. “You don't understand.” His voice dipped lower, tearing at his throat, the sound of it raw like blood. Hollow eyes turned to her. “I killed her.”

Everything in her went cold.

Oh God. No. He wouldn't. She refused to believe it. “You didn't—”

“I might as well have.”

Relief flooded through her. Whatever he'd done, whatever he was blaming himself for, it couldn't be as terrible as that. She dropped her arms and opened her mouth.

But he spoke right over her. “She just—she was upset. We'd been going round and round, and I got so
angry
.” So scared. Unspoken terror underlay every word, making him shake. “I needed to cool down; she knew how I got. She knew and she still thought she still wanted...She pushed me and called me a coward, all because I wanted to keep a child safe, and I
lost
it. Because I was. I was terrified.” His eyes went red and damp. “So I screamed at her. Called her naïve, idealistic, stupid, when she was only being kind. When she was trusting me. I proved her trust wrong.” His Adam's apple bobbed, and it was like something brittle in him shivering. Cracking. “I should have let her win. I should have stopped myself. I should have stopped
her
.”

They were nearly at the end of the story now. They had to be, and Serena braced herself.

“She was still sobbing when she got in the car. She was just going to her brother's house, but it was snowing. Ice everywhere, and I begged her to stay, but she couldn't—” He gritted his teeth, his pulse beating out of his skin beside his throat. “She couldn't stand to be in that house with me another second.”

Serena's own eyes spilled over, hot drops splashing over her cheeks. God, this man. What he'd been through—the guilt he lived with every day. “Oh, Cole...”

His voice went far away, nearly as distant as his gaze. “They said she didn't feel any pain. She was already gone before I got there, but her car. The blood—”

He cut himself off, choking on the word.

And she couldn't do this. The distance between them yawned, but she crossed it like it was nothing, and then she was in his space, her hands on his face. His cheeks burned beneath her palms, his eyes flashing wild. The depths of them spiraled out into some unknown, and she was sure he'd tear himself away.

But he didn't.

“It was my fault,” he rasped. “All my fault. Everyone knew. Her whole family at the funeral, her brother, our friends. And I promised, Serena. I promised I'd never do that to anyone again. I'd never let this”—he let go of one crutch to wave at his own heaving chest—“poison anyone else. I swore I'd never hurt anyone again.” He leaned forward until their brows brushed, his breath washing warm across her lips. “But then I met you.”

Fresh tears gathered in her eyes as she stared at him. She tried to pull them back, but it was no use.

His crutch went clattering to the floor as he cupped her jaw, the rough pad of his thumb stroking softly across her cheek. The intensity to his tone made her tremble. “And you...you make me want things I told myself I could never have. You make me want to try again, but I can't—I'm still the same person. I'll hurt you. I'll—”

Shaking her head, she pressed a finger to his lips. They were plush and warm against her skin, and he was so close.
They
were so close.

Her voice broke. “The only time you ever hurt me is when you push me away.”

Because that was what he was trying to do now by telling her this story. He was giving her an out. One last chance to walk away.

Heat and hope were twin coils interlacing themselves inside her abdomen. Letting them overtake her, she dragged her fingertip down his lips until it rested on the lower pout. The wet, soft flesh gave beneath that press, and he shuddered, curling his hand around her neck. The contact burned its way straight to her core.

“I'd never forgive myself if I—”

“You won't.”

Even she wasn't sure if she believed it. There was so much room for heartache here. Between his temper and his broken heart, the ghosts that lived inside him...the regrets.

And there was that deeper pang within her, too. He might kiss her tonight. He might give her so much of what she wanted, but he'd never give her a family. A good woman's love could heal so much, but it couldn't change a man. If his wife's love hadn't—if he still blamed himself for saying no to that—

Serena could never even bring it up.

She stomped down on that thought with prejudice. It was a worry for another time and another day.

For now, he was here and he was hurting, and the other things she wished for in her heart of hearts...they didn't matter. Not as much as this.

“Please,” she said, trembling. “I trust you. And you're not going to scare me away.”

It was too much.

Helen's voice still echoed in his ears, the weight of his guilt and the memory of blood on snow too vast for him to bear, but he wasn't alone. His knees didn't crumple, because Serena was here, holding him up. Her hands were cool and soft against his face, her skin so warm beneath his palm, and she hadn't fled. He'd told her everything, had given her the truth that had haunted him for all these years—the story he'd never dared to breathe to another person before—and nothing about her had wavered at all.

And now she was
begging
him. His heart, that frozen, broken thing lurched to life in a way he hadn't dreamed it still knew how to do, and it wasn't the only part of him waking up. His flesh hummed, every point of contact a revelation, and just like that he was starving for it. He needed her—needed her mouth and her touch and her calm that was a balm for his very soul. Needed her to exorcise his demons and bring him to life again.

Leaning hard against his crutch, he staggered that last step forward until her breasts brushed his chest.

“Stop me,” he whispered, their mouths a hairsbreadth apart. She might swear she trusted him, but he didn't even begin to trust himself. He was dangerous, he ruined everything he touched, and he'd fail her. He'd disappoint her over and over again. The promises he'd made—he'd sworn them for a reason, and if she showed him the slightest sliver of a doubt, he'd go. He'd leave her and he'd never return. It would kill him, but he would.

But the sea green of her eyes flashed deeper, resolve making her mouth go firm. She pulled herself even closer, sliding the damp tip of her finger from his lip to the line of his jaw, sending fire surging in her wake. When her hand threaded through his hair and
pulled
, it was a switch being flipped in his gut.

The fierceness of her gaze met his. “Never.”

And he was lost. He was found.

He caught her mouth in a kiss that shot lightning through his veins. Their last time had been so rushed, his body reacting on instinct to the sheer, reckless bravery with which she'd pressed her lips to his. He'd scarcely known what was happening until it was over, until he was reeling backward, horrified at himself for taking something he had no right to want.

His stomach dipped even as he took her now, slicking his tongue along her bottom lip to press inside, mind blanking against the pleasure of that soft, wet glide. He didn't have any right at this point either, but they were both going into this with their eyes wide open, and when it fell apart—

No
. All this time he'd wasted obsessing about the past; hell if he was going to waste even more driving himself insane about the future. Here in the present, she was warm and safe and in his arms. She wanted him, and he wanted her.

Christ, he wanted her
so much
. She opened to him without a moment's hesitation, and he scraped his teeth across her tongue to swallow her moan. His skin prickled at every place it pressed to hers, and it was like a well springing open inside him. All this time, he'd been suppressing the animal, male need for touch and contact and sex—he'd missed sex so much. But he'd missed so many things. The lush curves of a woman's body and the sweet haze of a kiss that went on and on and on, and all of it was even better than he'd dared to dream, because it was Serena. Serena's sighs and Serena's taste in his mouth. Serena's fingertips working magic against his scalp.

Serena's body pressed to his where he was achingly, shockingly hard.

He shuddered, nearly losing his balance at the fire that roared up his spine. Fuck, but he had to slow down.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled against her mouth. He skated his palm down her shoulder, skimmed the curve of her breast to the dip of her waist and gripped her hip—too rough by half but he couldn't let go. “I want to be so good to you.”

He wanted to take his time with her, but the urgency building in his veins threatened to overwhelm him before they'd even begun. It had been too long; it had been forever.

He'd thought he'd never, ever have this again.

“What do
you
want?” she countered, gasping as he kissed his way to her jaw and the tender flesh of her throat.

He was babbling. He was drunk on the taste of her skin. “You. Just you.”

“You have me.”

And he did, didn't he? Every step of the way, she had given herself to him, offering him her time and her patience and a forgiveness so deep it shook him to his bones. It struck him like a whiteout—like a blow to the skull—and he was just that staggered.

He didn't have much. But this was his chance. He'd give her all he had left in return.

Reclaiming her mouth, he pressed himself into her, urging her backward, and she must have been reading his goddamn mind with how her fist came to curl around his tie, tugging him along, taking him with her as she navigated their way across the room. It was an awkward dance, stumbling and shuffling, and he couldn't stop kissing her even long enough to grab his other crutch, but fuck it, fuck everything. Nothing hurt as he propelled himself forward. She flung her hand out to the side as they went, feeling along the wall until she managed to get the hallway light.

Christ, she was beautiful, cheeks flushed from his kisses, and the bare skin of her shoulders and neck smooth and pale. He slid his palm up the center of her chest this time, over the racing thrum of her heart to stroke her collarbone with his thumb, fingers stretching out across the swell of her breast.

He groaned aloud when her hand settled over the top of his, dragging it lower until he cupped her fully. She felt ripe, felt perfect where she fit against his palm, and the surge of white-hot need had him twitching inside his trousers.

Together, they staggered through the open doorway to what must be her bedroom. She missed the light switch by a mile, hand thumping against the plaster. She protested against his lips as he drove her on. “I should—”