My words from earlier come back to haunt me. “I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Yes, you did.” She touches my knee. “And I needed to hear it, because in all honesty, I would have carried on using you like a crutch, and blaming everyone but myself for the situation I’m in. If you didn’t hold a mirror to my vices, and show me how dependent I’ve become on others to fix everything for me, then what would have made me change?”
What on earth is she on about? How is any of this her fault? “You aren’t to blame for what he did to you, Jane. And it’s not wrong to need the help of people in a better position than you.” She doesn’t flinch when I reach for her face, and rub my thumb across her jaw.
“Maybe not,” she whispers. “But it is my fault for allowing it to continue. And as you rightly pointed out, not everyone around me is in a better position.”
I trail my fingers around the shell of her ear, tucking the lose strands back. She smiles, and any trace of my anger from earlier vanishes. Her presence is soothing. How could that asshole not see it? How could he waste such a woman?
“I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, and there’s a right time for the answers to present themselves to us,” I say. She’s my answer. “Maybe you weren’t ready to step away until now?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes shut, and I can see her fight back more tears.
“Don’t cry again.”
She laughs. “Trust me, I’m trying not to. I’m kind of over it as well.”
The pain twists her features, and instantly I miss the smile she gave me moments before. It’s clear her thoughts aren’t in this room with us, and I can’t think of anything else I can do to pull her back to me.
I kiss her—slowly and tenderly. I don’t want her to run, and if I throw her down like every part of my being wants to, she’d be out that door before I could say ‘fuck it.’ At first, she tenses, but the crucial difference is she doesn’t flinch. There’s no fear in her stiffness, only confusion.
As soft, and sweet as her lips are, I pull back to give her a moment to digest what’s going on. She has to be clear on this. No way am I pushing the envelope. She has to want what I’m ready to give.
“What are we?” she asks.
I frown, pondering the same. Indeed, what are we? More important—should we be doing this?
“I’m not sure,” I answer in earnest. “I’ve never stopped to think about it.”
She smiles, and my chest fucking vibrates with something I don’t know how to handle.
“Then let’s not name it,” she instructs.
I nod, and lean my forehead into hers. Jane’s hands brace her weight on my knees. The warmth from her touch radiates through the thick denim of my jeans.
In this moment, I know above all else, that her touch is the one that brands me.
EIGHT DAYS ago I told Malice not to name this thing we have going on, but name it is all I’ve tried to do.
The papers arrived from the police to confirm the temporary restraining order against Dylan is in place while we sort the charges out. I plucked those slips of white from the stamped envelope, held them in my hands, and bawled like a damn baby.
Meaningless letters typed in sequence. Words on a page. A letter. Those forms are none of those things; they’re step one on the road to independence. They are physical proof that I, Jane Darrow, have found the gall to change my path in life.
The next day, Malice returned from work with four identical picture frames, A4 in size. He served take-out, poured me a wine, and sat us down at the table to have an impromptu craft session, placing those pages in the frames.
They now hang on a section of wall you can’t help but pass everywhere you go in the house.
That night was the first night I lay awake in bed, long after Malice had retired to his room, and tried to name what we were.
Lovers?
Partners?
A fantasy I’ll wake from?
I’m still trying to work it out. Rocco nudges my feet as I stir the coffee before me into oblivion. I glance down, smile, and rub his head. Even he behaves like he’s known Malice all his life. Last night I woke in the small hours to find Rocco gone. My overactive imagination thought the worst, until I rose from bed, stood in the bedroom doorway, and smiled like a nutcase at the sight of him curled up against Malice’s back.
Since my nightmare that first night, Malice always leaves his door open. I have to admit, there’s something about removing that physical barrier that puts me at ease. I’m not isolated, forgotten. Maybe he means to, or maybe he doesn’t, but it feels as if he’s trying to show that he needs me safe. He’s trying to show me that he cares.