With Every Heartbeat

Afterward, he gently carried my limp remains to the couch, where he curled onto the cushions with me and cradled me into his arms. He was so tender and kind it made me melt against him and close my eyes with a satisfied sigh. The soft teddy bear had returned after taking me with an animalistic passion. I loved both extremes.

In the quiet aftermath, after we recovered from our near-death experience, he stroked my hair while I ran my fingernails up his back, following the grooves of his scars like I was working my way through a maze.

He shivered and hummed deep in his throat. “That feels so good. You will not believe how much they itch sometimes.”

I opened my eyes, surprised he was actually bringing attention to his scars. “Do they really?” I made sure to keep doing exactly what I was doing. He rewarded me by relaxing deeper into me, his huge beautiful body growing deliciously heavy as his face nestled into my hair.

“How did you get them anyway?” I didn’t change the speed or pressure of my administration, hoping to God I hadn’t triggered anything bad by asking.

But he remained completely lax against me. “That actually came from one of my mom’s men. Not her.”

I couldn’t contain a horrified gasp as I hugged him to me.

He hugged me back. “She liked to pick guys who could get as drunk mean as she did.”

“Was it a belt?” I asked. When he nodded, I shuddered and tried not to gag. “It must’ve been awful. My dad took a belt to me a few times, but it only left a mark once when he used the wrong end.”

Quinn’s hand went to the back of my knee as if he remembered seeing that mark and knew where it had come from. “Yeah, well, this guy thought the wrong end was actually the right end to use on an eight-year-old boy.”

Eight? I clutched him a little closer. “Why’d he go after you?”

“He was beating my mom. No idea why they were arguing, but I tried to stop him. I usually didn’t intervene because my mom typically started it and gave back as good as she got. But she was no longer at a place where she could fight back.” His sigh was heavy and full of dark memories. “I didn’t do much damage to him, though. Probably didn’t even leave a single bruise. My mom and I both ended up in the hospital that night.”

“My God.” I ran my fingers over his face, so relieved he’d survived all that. “I never ended up in the hospital from any of my experiences.”

Quinn lifted his face and looked up at me, his eyes curious. “Not even once?”

I shook my head. “I was one of those extremely obedient children. I learned early which lines never to cross, I hid when he wanted me to be scarce, and I was there when I needed to be there, doing my duties.”

His dark swirling eyes told me he didn’t believe me. Then his fingers drifted over my shoulder to sweep across my old cigarette burns. “What about these?”

I sniffed out a sad laugh. “He found an opened, half-empty pack of cigarettes in his study one time. He thought they were mine. When I denied it, he lit one and held it against me until I cried out and started sobbing, begging him to stop. After he asked me again, I still denied it, insisting they weren’t mine. So he lit another and burned me again. It took five times before I finally admitted they were mine. The next day, one of his friends asked him if he’d left his pack of cigarettes and favorite lighter at our house.”

Quinn curled his lip as if he wanted to hunt my father down and hurt him. “Did he apologize?”

I let out a short, hard laugh. “My father? No way. He slapped me for lying to him by finally admitting they were mine.”

“Bastard,” he growled.

Loving how protective and fierce he looked, I kissed his cheek.

His lashes fluttered and he leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine. “It must’ve been hell for you.”

I shrugged. “It was manageable. I knew my limits. Physical, fist-to-skin beatings were actually pretty rare. Maybe once a month.”

“Once a month is not that rare.” He ran the backs of his knuckles across my cheek. “But Cora made it sound as if you were always scared for your life and showed up to school every day freshly bruised.”

With a roll of my eyes, I began to stroke his back again. “Cora has a way of overdramatizing things. Attacks didn’t really come because I’d disobeyed. Usually, it was something that set him off at work, and he’d need to vent on me, using me as his whipping post to relieve his stress.” I shrugged. “I guess it was a good thing he was a powerful man at his bank. He usually got his way in his business dealings. So the abuse was limited. It was the psychological and emotional treatment I hated most.”