Page 62 of Theta

I nod. "I'm listening."

"I think I speak for most women, here, when I say that feeling safe is huge. Like, it's the biggest thing, Killy. For most women—for every woman I've ever spoken to about this, at least—feeling safe is the make-or-break thing when it comes to our sexuality. What that looks like and feels like obviously differs from person to person, but the basic fact remains: if I don't feel safe, I won't be able to open up. I shut down by degrees, Killian. It started with Parker and the fat ass comment—I shut down a little, felt less confident in my body. It was harder for me to trust a guy enough to let him see me naked because of that comment. And then Everett, and I no longer felt safe being myself in bed. I stopped being myself. I still wanted, needed, and enjoyed sex, but I sort of cut myself off from a whole aspect of what I want—or, really, need. Because I didn't feel safe. I just…I kept it vanilla because that's all I felt safe with. And then I met Jocko, and he actually helped with the body insecurity issues, somewhat. And the sexual aggression, too. He drew some of that out of me. Jocko really, really wasn't a bad guy. He’d just…he had shitty taste in women. Every woman he'd ever dated cheated on him, so he sort of expected it. Doesn't matter that I didn't and wouldn't, and he ended up hurting me pretty badly anyway, just in a different way. His jealousy and insecurity just eroded whatever we may have had, and my own stuff made it worse because I didn't trust him either. I was always questioning if he was being sincere. It was a toxic, mutual distrust, but the point I’m trying to make is that I shut down even more after him. I haven't had the courage to be with anyone since Jocko, because I don't feel safe. I haven't been able to open up to anyone. Not even for casual sex. I guess I'm at the point where that actually feels more scary. Letting a perfect stranger see me, see my body that I'm not sure I feel good about, trying to trust that total stranger with my sexual assertiveness? I want to. But I just can’t. I work out. I eat right, mostly. I take care of myself because I want to feel good about my body. But in the end, I don't trust anyone enough anymore to be that vulnerable.” She keeps my face turned to hers, and her blue eyes are so intense it's hard to hold her gaze for long. "You changed all that for me, Killy. I feel safe with you. I've seen that even when Bryn is being kind of a dick to you, you don't lash out. Even when you'd be within your rights. I've seen that you follow Cal, but only so far. You won't do anything too stupid or too illegal, and you won't let him. And he listens. I've seen you work with your dad. I've seen you train. You take things seriously. You don't half-ass anything."

I open my mouth, but she's not done.

"And since I woke up in the dark in that container, you've been a rock. You don't panic. You don't hesitate. You've kept me safe, Killy. Physically safe, I mean, in a scenario where that's very fucking far from guaranteed." My heart pounds and my hands are clammy—emotions jangle and jostle inside me by the trillion, it feels like, and I don't know what I'm feeling, hearing her say all this. "You respect me. You've never assumed anything. You've been so, so careful to make sure I'm comfortable with what's happening between us, even at the expense of your own comfort. That's taking care of me, Killy. That's making me feel safe. And guess what? When I feel safe, it's easy to be myself and to be vulnerable with you, emotionally and physically. I know without a doubt that you'd never judge me for my past. I know without a doubt that you'd never belittle me or make me feel bad about my body."

"I'm in love with you," I whisper. "Nothing could be more important to me than you feeling safe with me and trusting me."

"I do."

"And that alone makes me feel ten feet tall," I say.

"We're just getting started figuring this out," Story says. "But I trust you with my heart, and I trust you with my body. That's a big freaking deal for me, Killian. The fact that I trust you with my safety in a situation like this is even bigger of a deal."

A thoughtful pause.

"I guess what I really want to say is this." She looks away, thinking, then back to me, and her gaze locks mine in place; I can no more look away now than I could breathe underwater. "You're sweet. You're kind. You're thoughtful and understanding. You're also strong and sexy. You're fierce when you need to be. I mean, god, Killy, you shot three men without blinking."

"I puked after," I point out.

"Be weirder if you hadn't," she says, breezily, as if it doesn't even matter either way. "You kiss me like there might not be a tomorrow. You look at me like I'm the only woman in the world." Her voice shakes a little. "And you touch me like you can't get enough. You're obsessed with my ass, the part of me that I'm most insecure about. You just gave me the best orgasms of my life. And you…I felt so secure and safe with you that I…I couldn't help but be myself. And you…" She blinks hard, tears trickling. "You didn't hesitate, didn't have to think about it. You accepted it." She talks over me before I can speak. "Killian, if you can be sweet and sensitive and yet be confident enough in yourself to let me be myself, then I don't know what else I could ever ask for. You aren't threatened by my assertiveness. But you also aren't some fainting daisy. You're tough."

"You make me sound like the complete package," I say, laughing.

She doesn't laugh. "I mean, you kind of are." She leans back against me at an angle, her back to my chest. I sling my arm over her shoulder and down her chest, between her breasts.

"The fact that you're strong enough to trust me after the way guys have treated you, Story…I hope you know I don't take that for granted."

"I'm hopeful, Killy," She murmurs, sounding drowsy. "I grew up watching Mom and Dad and how they love each other. Mom is tough and fierce and kind of a wild woman, although since she's quiet, it's easy to miss. Dad has always loved her for exactly who she is. He gives her space to be herself. He's not threatened by her strength. He's…he loves her for it. And Dad isn't your typical super macho manly man, Killy. You know him well enough to know that. I saw their love. And I've…I've always wanted that for myself. I see a lot of Dad in you, actually, in the best possible way." She yawns into her hand.

"There isn't much higher of a compliment you could give me than to say I'm anything like Anselm See."

"You're the best parts of your mother and father, Killian."

"Except that. That’s the highest compliment." I nuzzle her temple, kiss her hair.

I let my eyes close, let them grow heavy. Her weight against my chest is warm and comforting, and the soft sigh of her breathing as she dozes off is the sweetest music—that she trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms at all, let alone here, now…it's everything.

I doze off, too, then.

A blaring, digital din jolts me out of sleep, a 16-bit version of a jaunty tune: a decades-old ringtone on a decades-old burner phone. I wrench my eyes open—daylight streams through the window, and for a second, I panic that we've missed the ferry, but a glance at the range clock reading 9:47 reassures me that we still have time.

The ringtone starts up again—the burner phone of Enzo's that we confiscated is on the coffee table, a long string of numbers flashing on the screen.

I reach for it, but the slam of the bedroom door swinging open and crashing violently into the wall stops me. Enzo comes tripping and stumbling out of the bedroom, dancing into his jeans and cursing in Italian.

"Do not answer that!" he shouts. I toss him the phone, and he catches it, glances at the screen, and winces at what he sees. "Merda, merda, merda. Okay, okay."

"Who is it?" I ask.

"Who do you think?" he snaps, and then flips it open and stabs the answer button; he answers in rapid Italian, listens, gives a series of unh-huhs and unh-unhs. Listens again. "No, is not necessary. I know. They get away, but—how am I to know who shooted them? No, I know. But—alright, okay. Yes. Today? Is not possible!" He listens again, and the blood drains out of his face. "I understand. No, that is really not required. I will find them. I will! No, please. I will do as you say. Do not send—" he pulls the phone away and looks at the screen for a moment, and then very carefully closes the clamshell device, as if to restrain himself from hurling it across the room or crushing it in his hand. “Cazzo di merda.”

Story is awake and sitting up, braiding her hair behind her head while eying Enzo. "What? Who was that?"

"It was Pugli's man. Salvatore. His numero due. He knows you escaped, and he knows the boating men are dead. He also knows I am here. How, I do not know. Probably this phone is having a…cazzo…tracciatore GPS."

"A GPS tracker?" I guess.