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You’re safe.
Get. Your. Shit. Together.
It’s King, not him.
The air I’ve been desperately trying to suck in finally hits my lungs.
I sag against him and allow his arms to circle my body and pull me against him.
“Fuck,” he mutters harshly again as he cups the back of my head. His touch is soothing. Calming. And I find myself slowly releasing my panic.
Will this ever end?
Will I ever not be triggered by loud sounds?
Will I ever be normal again?
Stepping out of King’s hold, I apologise. “Sorry.” I mean it, but my apology is stilted because I also wish it never needed to be said.
His eyes flash with anger. “Don’t you ever apologise for that shit. Not fucking ever.”
I just want all of this to go away.
Reaching for my drink, I drain half the glass, avoiding King’s gaze. I know why he’s here and I honestly don’t know
if I’m ready for him.
He doesn’t waste any time. “Fury told me about last night.”
King is a man of very few words, but he never needs many to say what he wants to. Even when Mum and I fought over the things I did in my earlier teen years, he had a way of stepping in and helping us without joining in the arguments. He didn’t like to involve himself unless he felt it absolutely necessary, so the fact he’s involving himself in this says a lot. And while this may be the last conversation I want to be having right now, it means everything to me that he cares enough to have it.
But I’m pissed at Fury. I have no idea why a guy who doesn’t seem to give a shit about anything except fighting and fucking club whores would even bother to tell King about my drinking. Worrying about me is the last thing King needs on his plate. I’m not feeling any gratitude towards Fury for adding to King’s worries. And I’m definitely not feeling happy about having to even get into this with King. It’s too soon. The wall around my heart is too fragile, and I know it will shatter into a million pieces if he tries to break it down.
“There’s nothing to tell, King. I drank a little too much. End of story.” Please don’t make me talk about this.
His eyes search mine, and the disbelief I see in them tells me this won’t be the end of the story. “I think we both know this isn’t so much about the drinking as it is about what’s going on in your head.”
Again, he hasn’t said much, but he’s said everything. He’s gotten right to the point. We’ve never discussed the circumstances of my mugging two months ago or how I’ve coped with it. I know he took care of the guy who assaulted me, though. Of course he did; that’s what King does. He sorts out the people who fuck with those he loves, and that guy fucked with me bad.
My gaze drops because I’m unable to look at King while we’re talking about this. There’s too much shame surrounding this for me, which is dumb because I didn’t ask for what happened, but still, I feel shame and guilt over everything that happened that night.
King lifts my chin to bring my eyes back to his. “Don’t do that. Don’t let that motherfucker ruin you.” If only he knew the full truth.
I blink as the first tear falls. God, I do not want to cry today. But I can’t stop them once that first one streaks down my cheek. Within seconds, I’m a blubbering mess, unable to talk or do anything but madly try to wipe them all away.
King’s strong arms circle me and he pulls me into a hug again. It’s comforting. He’s comforting. And I’m reminded how lucky I am to have him in my life. Mum’s friend Adelaide still struggles with accepting him, even after all these years, but if she saw this side of King, she’d know that Mum made the right choice when she married him.
We stay like that for what feels like a long time, and when I’ve finally got myself under control, I step out of his arms. “Thank you,” I whisper. I might not have needed this conversation, but I needed that hug.
“Yeah. You also need to talk to someone about this. Someone outside the family. Because this shit going on in your head isn’t going to go away on its own, and numbing yourself with alcohol isn’t the answer.”
I nod even though what he’s suggesting isn’t something I want to do. He and Mum have suggested a few times that I see someone, and I told them I would, but the thought of it makes me feel ill.
When I don’t answer him, he pushes, his voice hard now. “Make the appointment, Zara. I want confirmation by tonight.”
That gets my back up. I don’t like being pressured into anything. “I’ll do it when I’m ready.”
“No, you’ll do it today.”
