CHAPTER 15
Jack stayed very still as Callie’s teeth sunk into his lip and didn’t react. He’d been expecting her do to something like this from the moment he’d touched her face and watched alarm and distress flare in her blue eyes. And then, when he’d gathered her in close, he’d felt the tension in her whole body.
Yeah, she didn’t like him being gentle. But shit, the way she’d cried for him, the way she’d trembled when she’d told him about her mother, the fierce look in her eyes as she’d told him that he couldn’t believe he’d failed, because then she’d have to believe that her mother was right, that her father’s abusive behavior was her fault . . . Christ, all those things had made him realize that he’d gotten so caught up in his own pain and anger, he hadn’t given one thought to hers.
He’d gotten so angry when she’d touched his scars and told him they were marks of bravery, and he wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t sure why he wanted to deny that, because he’d always thought that’s what they were for too. Yet there had been something inside him that had denied it, that had whispered to him that he hadn’t kept those scars because he was proud of them. He’d kept them to remind himself of all the people he hadn’t saved. The people who’d been most important in his life. His mom. Molly.
He didn’t know why he’d admitted that to her, not when it was something he could barely admit even to himself, yet he had. And she’d cried for him, her tears eating away at him like acid, making him even angrier. Until she’d told him about her mother, about the blame that woman had piled on her daughter, and all his anger had suddenly drained away.
Because behind the ferocity in her eyes, he’d seen the pain and the doubt. The weight she’d been carrying around all those years. And he knew how heavy that weight was. Christ, he carried something like it himself.
It wasn’t fair that she should have that on her shoulders. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right for a kid to have to bear that burden. Especially when he knew how open it left you to doubt. Sure, he’d only been eight when his sister had died, and no, he probably couldn’t have stopped his father doing what he’d done, but what if he could have? What if he’d pleaded with his mother a little harder? What if he’d woken just a little earlier, in time to throw himself at his father and maybe allow Molly a second’s breath?
Those what-ifs stayed with you. They never went away. They were like termites, undermining your soul, hollowing it out and making it fragile.
And she was so very fragile. Sure, she was brave and she was strong, but he’d forgotten that she was also so vulnerable.
He’d wanted to touch her then, gather her close. Treat her gently, tenderly, ease the doubt he saw in her eyes. So he had, drawing her in for a kiss and taking it slow, being careful with her.
But she’d gone rigid in his arms and when he’d asked her what the problem was, she hadn’t been able to tell him. Yet he thought he knew the answer to that question.
Gentleness had been absent in her life, just like it had been absent in his, and she was afraid of it. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t know what it was, she’d been touching him with gentleness for the last ten minutes after all. It was simply that for some reason, it scared her. God, he wished he knew why.
She’d told him she liked it rough, because it made her feel strong, so did being gentle with her make her feel weak? Was it the absence of having something to fight against that scared her?
He reached up and wound his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back. Her cheeks were pink and tear-stained, and her eyes were red, and she was breathing very fast. “Come on,” she said hoarsely. “Make it hurt, Jack. That’s what I want.”
“I don’t want to fight you.” He’d hurt her before, and yes, they’d both got off on it, but he didn’t want to hurt her now, not when she was already in pain. “I want to make you feel better, not make it worse.”
“But fighting does make me feel better.” She pushed against his chest again, struggling in his hold. “I like it. I want it.”
She tried to bite him again, but he angled his head away. “No,” he said flatly. “Not this time.”
Frustration flickered across her lovely features. “Then if you’re not going to do that, let me go.”
“Not going to do that either.” He stared down into her sea-blue eyes. “I asked you a question and you didn’t give me a straight answer.”
“I don’t have to—”
“I answered all of yours. I told you about my mom. I told you about Molly. Fuck, I even told you what those scars meant to me. You think that was easy for me to say? You think it was easy for me to admit to?”
“No, but I—”
“No, you’re damn fucking right it wasn’t.” Keeping his fingers wound tight in her hair, he touched her mouth with his other hand, feeling the tension gather even more tightly in her. “But now it’s your turn, Princess. You can’t push me and expect to escape the consequences, not today.”
Her lashes fell, veiling her gaze, the tears caught in them glittering like tiny diamonds. “No,” she said thickly after a moment. “Is that what you wanted to hear? No, no one ever held me. No one ever touched me like I mattered.”
It was the answer he’d been expecting, yet the note of pain in her voice made him want to put his fist through someone’s face all the same. Preferably her father’s. Instead he settled for running a finger over her lower lip, tracing it gently the way she had his. “Then isn’t it about time someone did?”
She turned her head away. “I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?” He stared down at her features, at her small, determined chin and strong jaw. At the lovely angles of her cheekbones and her elegant nose. A passionate little face. “Is it because you believe you don’t actually matter? Is that what the problem is?”
She shook her head wordlessly, but he already knew the answer. That’s exactly what she did think.
Anger blossomed inside him, but not at her. At the two people who’d made her feel like that: her parents. Christ, if her father was here right now, Jack would have beaten the shit out of him, and as for her mother . . . Well, he wouldn’t have laid a hand on her, but he’d have pointed out to her exactly what blaming Callie had done to her daughter. How badly it had hurt her.
Fuck, they were wrong. So goddamned wrong. She did matter. She mattered to him, and maybe it was a dangerous thing to admit to himself, but he didn’t give a shit about that right now.
He wanted to dry her tears and ease her pain. He wanted to show her that she was important and that she deserved gentleness, deserved tenderness.
Of course, he was the wrong fucking guy to be showing her since it wasn’t as if he knew anything about being gentle or tender. He hadn’t had anything like that in his life after all. But he wanted to try all the same. Because she was strong and beautiful and brave. Passionate and creative and perceptive.
Because she was just fucking worth it.
“You matter, Callie,” he said, wishing his voice wasn’t quite so rough and yet not being able to make it any less so. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but you do.”
Her lashes remained closed, but they trembled and he saw her throat move. She’d heard him all right.
He didn’t wait for her to argue with him, he simply gripped her little chin in his hand and lowered his head. Brushed his mouth over hers, then traced her lower lip gently with his tongue, coaxing her to open for him.
She resisted, but he didn’t stop, nipping her gently, keeping his kiss gentle but insistent. Releasing her chin, he slid his hand down her neck, spreading his fingers wide, caressing her as his palm came to rest in the hollow of her throat. Her pulse beat fast against his skin, getting faster.
He cradled the back of her head, his thumb massaging the tension in her neck as he kept up that coaxing kiss, encouraging her to relax, to let him give her this. And eventually she gave a groan and her mouth opened to him, letting him into the heat and sweetness inside it.
He explored her, tasted her, taking his time to learn her flavor and what made her tremble, what made her moan. She tried to kiss him back, getting impatient, getting a little rough, but he didn’t give in to it. He kept it slow and tender, silently relishing the impatient sounds she made.
This wasn’t something he’d thought he’d like—he preferred it rough too, after all—but kissing her like this, being gentle with her, was far more erotic than he’d ever imagined it would be. He wanted to push her back onto the mattress and fuck her hard, the way they’d done it before, but he ignored the urge. Leashed it tightly.
He had a point to prove, a mission goal he was going to achieve and failure right now was simply not an option.
Not her. Not today.
So he kept on kissing her, taking it hotter, deeper, but keeping it slow. Long, tantalizing licks into her mouth and gentle nips. Making her shudder. Making the hands she had pressed to his chest creep up around his neck and hold on tight. She was arched into him, her soft little tits against his chest and he could feel the hard points of her nipples, smell the subtle feminine musk of her arousal. Desperate sounds were escaping from her throat and he was very tempted to not to give in to them, push her desire even higher.
But this wasn’t about denying her. This was about giving her what she deserved, so he eased her back down onto the mattress. Then, after a moment, he turned her over onto her front.
She made a small sound of protest, but he ignored it, putting a hand on the back of her neck. Then he slid it down, following down the lovely curve of her spine to just above her ass, before trailing his fingers back up again. And again. Long, gentle strokes. Learning the shape of her, the firmness of her muscles beneath the skin, the fragility of her bones, the silky smoothness of her skin.
She quivered, turning her head toward him as he did nothing but stroke her. Touching her gently and with tenderness.
“Jack . . .” Her voice was very thick.
“Shh.” He drew a pattern between her narrow shoulder blades, and then spread his fingers out, trailing a zigzag path from one side of her body to the other, all the way down to the small of her back.
Her eyes closed, but she trembled even harder, tears seeping from underneath her lashes, to slide down her cheeks.
As if his touch hurt her.
He couldn’t bear it. Her tears made him hurt too.
“Princess,” he said quietly. “Don’t cry. Please, sweetheart. Don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it.” She took a ragged-sounding breath. “It hurts.”
So what he was doing did hurt her, which meant he should stop. But no, he had a mission and he was going to achieve it. Besides, he knew a little bit about healing and it always involved pain of some sort. If it didn’t hurt then you weren’t getting better.
“Where?” He traced another gentle pattern across her tailbone. “Where does it hurt?”
She opened her eyes, the sea blue gone dark, like a storm approaching. Then she twisted slightly onto her side, and lifted her hand. “Here.” Her palm rested just above her heart. “It hurts here.”
His chest went so tight he could hardly breathe. Christ, he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t. But he didn’t want her to carry that pain around either.
“What about this?” Reaching out, he took her wrist very gently and turned her hand up, pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. Then he returned her hand to where it had been resting on her chest, pressing it gently against her skin. “Does that help?”
Another tear slid down her cheek. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” He traced another pattern down her side, to her hip and farther, to the top of her thigh, then back up again. “You’re beautiful, Callie. You’re strong and stubborn, and yeah, pretty fucking annoying at times.” He softened it with a half smile, that made her pretty mouth twitch too. “But it’s also pretty fucking impressive. I have a lot of respect for you. For the way you’ve handled a really shitty situation.” He let his hand curve over the softness of her ass, not demanding, just touching her, tracing her. “You didn’t let yourself get swallowed by that prick. You didn’t lie down and take it. And then, fuck, you’re creative, too. I mean, I have no idea about music, but I do know that you sounded really good. That song . . .” He wasn’t a man who talked about his feelings. At all. But he wanted to give her this. “It touched me, Princess.”
She blinked fiercely, her gaze still dark. She didn’t say anything and he didn’t either; he looked into her eyes, his hand tracing circles and patterns over her body, letting her know without saying a word that she mattered. That she was important. That she was special.
And when her tears slowly slid down her cheeks, he said, “Wounds always hurt when they heal, Callie. That’s how you know you’re getting better.”
She let out a sudden breath at that, half a sob, half a moan, and then she sat up abruptly, reaching for him, winding her arms around his neck, her mouth finding his. Kissing him passionately, desperately.
Perhaps he should have pushed her down again, stroked her some more, but he thought he’d made his point. And besides, she tasted of salt and pain, and it was pleasure he ultimately wanted to give her.
Recovery wasn’t always about pain. His physical therapist had been worse than some of his commanders, but once she’d started promising him a beer after each session, he found the pain much easier to deal with.
So he let Callie kiss him for a long moment. Then he calmly took charge, easing her back against the mattress, but this time he followed her down onto it, covering her body with his.
And with patience and gentleness, with tenderness and skill, he proceeded to give her all the pleasure he was capable of.
All the pleasure she deserved.
* * *
Callie must have drifted off, because the next thing she knew, the shadows of late afternoon were shining through the windows and Jack was standing by them, talking quietly on his phone. He had his jeans on, but hadn’t bothered with his T-shirt, so she took a moment just to appreciate the beauty of his torso. To remember how his skin had felt beneath hers and the roughness of the scars that laced his side. The contrasting softness of his mouth on her skin, the gentleness of his touch . . .
Her heart gave one hard, painful beat.
“Wounds always hurt, Princess . . .”
He wasn’t wrong. They did hurt. In fact, she hadn’t realized how many wounds she’d actually had until he’d touched her and they’d begun to hurt. All the wounds her parents had dealt her over the years, death by a thousand cuts.
But somehow the way Jack touched her, the way he told her how important she was, how she mattered, made her feel like that day in her father’s study after he’d pulled her out of college, staring into her mother’s eyes and seeing the hatred there. The blame.
She’d spent years trying to be good, doing what her father had said in order to protect her mother. Because Callie had loved her. Because once, she’d been kind. But there was nothing of love in her mother’s eyes now. Only accusation. “Your fault,” she’d hissed. “This is all your fault.”
And Callie had felt that hit her like a shock, like a spear of ice direct through her heart. She’d felt bewildered and hurt, and underneath all of that, there had been a part of her that had wondered was her mother right?
Oh, she’d told herself no, that she couldn’t be blamed for being born, and she’d ripped that spear out and gone on with her life. But the wound was still there, like the tip of that spear had broken off as she’d pulled it out, and it had left something inside her. Something sharp and cold.
Jack’s touch had somehow bumped that thing in her heart, that wound that had never healed no matter how much she’d pretended otherwise.
Gentleness was painful because it made her want more of it.
And she wasn’t sure she was worth it.
Your mother might be right. You might not be.
She swallowed, forcing the voice away. No, she wasn’t going to think about the pain, or her worth or lack of it. Or about how, despite the fact that his touch had hurt, there had been a part of her that had craved his gentleness, been desperate for his tenderness. That had loved the feeling of his hands stroking slowly down her back, tracing patterns on her skin. That had wanted more.
She could still feel his touch even now, as if the impressions his fingers had left were still there, glowing warmly. Sinking down beneath the surface of her skin, into her flesh, into her blood, into her bones . . .
He’s left his mark on you. You’ll never be the same again.
Callie took a silent, sharp breath, the thought adding to the pile of things she didn’t want to think about, making her feel uneasy.
“So, what’s the plan?” Jack was saying quietly. “Does he want a meeting or what? . . . No. She’s not going anywhere until I can guarantee her safety, understand?”
He was still turned away, looking out the window, the fading sun shining on his tattoo, the dragon climbing up his side. How strange that he’d tattooed a monster over those scars, when a monster was the very last thing he was. He’d said he was violent and possessive, too, and yet that wasn’t true. Sure, he’d had moments of violence—he was in the military after all—and yet that wasn’t the whole of him. Neither was his possessiveness.
He was capable of gentleness. Of care and tenderness. She’d seen and experienced that firsthand. And sure, he was possessive, but that was another aspect of his protectiveness. And she . . . kind of liked it. It certainly didn’t scare her the way he seemed to think it should.
Her heart gave another of those uncomfortable beats and she could feel it echo through her like a warning.
You know what this means, don’t you?
Yeah, she knew. She was falling for him.
“Okay, fine,” Jack said. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” The call ended and he lowered the phone, slipping it into his back pocket. Then he stood there for a long, silent moment, staring out the windows.
She watched him, wondering what he was thinking and realizing that it wasn’t an idle question, but an important one to her. And one she really wanted to know the answer to. But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was, “Is it twelve hours already then?”
He turned at the sound of her voice, his gaze meeting hers, and she could feel heat spread the entire length of her body, a massive wave of it, trailing longing in its wake.
No, scratch falling. She’d already fallen. And hard.
She was blushing, her cheeks feeling like they were on fire, which was entirely ridiculous considering what they’d spent the last couple of hours doing. Yet that didn’t stop her from blushing.
He moved from the windows, coming over to the bed, and she watched the way he moved, admiring his fluidity and yet that slight hitch in his walk making her chest feel tight with tenderness.
No, she didn’t want to fall for him, but she had. And maybe it was Stockholm syndrome and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was simply that parts of him meshed perfectly with parts of her. Like different notes in a song, creating the perfect melody. The bright notes and the dark, together creating a whole.
She’d never thought she’d fall for anyone, never thought she’d want to, not after watching her parents’ dysfunctional relationship play out the way it had. But if there was one thing she’d learned about Jack, it was that not all men were like her father. Which meant that not all relationships needed to be like her parents’. She could choose differently. Hell, she already had.
Yeah, but you’re not in a relationship.
Well, no. Jack had been very clear about not sleeping with her again, yet he had. But she didn’t think that a sudden confession from her would be the best way to go just yet. Certainly not with her father still wanting her back.
Afterward, when this was all over, then she might be able to broach it.
Jack came to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out a hand and winding his fingers through her hair. And she had to work to stop the urge to arch herself up into his touch like a cat wanting to be stroked.
“Not quite twelve hours.” His hard mouth curved in a rare smile that made her breath catch. “Good news. The kidnapping bullshit your father created with the press has been handled. I have to go in to meet with the team, but it looks like the mysterious Mr. Night has changed his mind about helping you after all.”
She blinked at the suddenness of it. “What?
“I don’t know all the details quite yet. But Faith told me that Night’s managed to get Hawthorne to hold off looking for you.” Jack’s vivid gaze held hers. “This could mean you’re free, Princess.”
She stared back at him, shock moving through her. Free? Just like that? It seemed . . . too good to be true, quite frankly. “No,” she murmured. “He’d never just let me go like that, Jack. He just wouldn’t. Not after he went to the media and everything.”
“Yeah, I agree. Which is why I’m going to meet with them in ten to get the full story.” He stroked her hair, then wound it around his fingers. “I want you to stay here. Don’t put a foot outside this door until I know what’s going on, okay?”
She nodded, her throat starting to feel a little dry, because if it was true. If her father had actually left her alone, then . . .
You’re free.
But no, she couldn’t think that. Couldn’t believe it until she actually had proof.
“How long will you be?” She found herself leaning into his hand, relishing the absent stroke of his thumb over her scalp.
“Not sure. I’ll leave you my burner phone and get another on the way there, then I’ll text you.” He bent and brushed his mouth over hers in an all too brief kiss, then pulled back. “You’ll be okay?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good.” He released her, then got off the bed, moving to grab his T-shirt, pulling it on, then reaching for his leather jacket. As he put that on, she noticed that he also slipped a gun into the waistband of his jeans, and for some reason that made her feel better. Stupid to be worried about him, especially when it was obvious he could take care of himself, but then he had his vulnerabilities too, just like she did.
Once he was dressed, he came back to the bed and took another kiss from her, then, with another warning to stay in the hotel room—as if he hadn’t said it fifty million times already—he headed straight for the door and went out, leaving it to close behind him.
She sighed and rolled over onto her back, staring at the ceiling. But her brain kept circling back to what had gone on between them just before, to the way he’d touched her and how it had hurt her. To the heavy beat of her heart as he’d stood by the windows.
To the absence that lingered in the room now he was gone.
Hell, she missed him already. Perhaps lying there thinking was a bad idea. Perhaps she should get up and do something.
Hauling herself off the bed, Callie went into the little bathroom and ran herself a hot shower. The water felt good on her skin so she stayed there probably longer than she should have, washing her hair and humming to herself, trying to figure out the end to that song she’d been composing.
Ten minutes later, fully dressed in her only set of clothes—jeans and a T-shirt—she was drying her hair with the hotel hair dryer when there was a knock on the room door. It was loud enough to be heard over the drone of the hair dryer, and it made her frown, because she couldn’t think of who it could possibly be. Housekeeping maybe? Or room service? But then she hadn’t ordered anything and housekeeping wasn’t due. Maybe Jack had ordered her something on his way out? She hoped so. Turned out lots of sex and emotion made you very hungry indeed.
Turning the hair dryer off, she put it down on the bathroom vanity, then stepped out of the bathroom and paused to make sure she’d actually heard a knock. It came again, louder this time and more insistent.
Puzzled, she went over to the door and looked through the peephole, only to see nothing but an empty corridor.
How weird. What the hell was going on?
She put her hand on the door handle and pulled it open, risking a glance out into the corridor.
Only to find her view suddenly blocked by a very large man.
Callie jerked in shock and took a step back, trying to pull shut the door, but he’d put out a hand and grabbed it before she could, holding it open.
He was familiar, she knew it, but her brain had started to panic and couldn’t place him.
But then she didn’t need to, because the man stepped aside to reveal someone else standing behind him. Someone whom this time she had no problems identifying.
“Ah, Callie,” her father said with a smile that was just a hair short of terrifying. “You’ve led me on quite a chase. But it’s over now. Time to come home.”