“Then wine it is. You need something to relax you. You have five minutes to change if you don’t want me walking in while you’re getting undressed.”
After that directive, he strode out of her bedroom, closing the door so she would be assured complete privacy. He purposely took longer than five minutes because he knew she likely spent the first several minutes arguing with herself and forming all sorts of ways to tell him to go fuck himself.
He shrugged. He’d had far worse said to him. And he had already discovered her bark was far more ferocious than her bite. Underneath the tough exterior lay a soft heart and an even softer soul.
He poured them both a glass, though he had no desire for the drink. His thoughts were too consumed with Kylie and the episode he’d witnessed at the restaurant. Whether she wanted to or not, she was going to explain to him exactly what the hell had spurred that panic attack. He had a good idea, but he wanted to hear it from her. Wanted her to trust him enough to open up and perhaps talk about things she never spoke of to anyone else.
It was an unrealistic expectation, but it didn’t prevent him from wanting it.
When he shouldered his way back into her bedroom, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, shaken, dressed in very modest pajamas, long sleeved, covering every inch of her delectable flesh.
It was in the unguarded moment when she hadn’t yet registered his presence that he saw beyond the façade she presented to the rest of the world.
She looked infinitely fragile and so very vulnerable. She looked . . . lonely. Sadness clung to her like a fog, surrounding her with such heaviness it made his heart ache. Then she glanced up, eyes startled as she realized she was no longer alone.
And just as quickly, the barriers were back up, her face becoming impenetrable. But he’d already seen beyond it. Knew what was underneath.
“This really isn’t necessary,” she protested when he shoved the glass of wine into her hands. “I’m okay, Jensen. It was very kind of you to bring me home, but I feel foolish. It was stupid of me and now I’m just embarrassed.”
Jensen ignored her protests and settled onto the bed next to her, their thighs nearly touching.
“Who did he remind you of, Kylie?” he asked gently.
She went pale and immediately averted her gaze. She took a long swallow of the wine, gulping at it almost as if she needed the liquid courage it would bring to even dwell on the earlier episode.
“My father,” she blurted.
She immediately squeezed her eyes shut, regret etched in her forehead. She shook her head in bewilderment, obviously asking herself why she’d confided that much.
“Is he still alive?” Jensen asked.
She nodded.
“And does he live here? Do you ever see him?” he prodded.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “And no, I don’t see him. Ever. I have no desire to. I wish he were dead. I wish it had been him and not Carson. It’s not fair.”
Tears thickened her voice and slid down her cheeks. She seemed embarrassed by them but he didn’t move, didn’t react. He didn’t want to draw any more attention to the emotion she tried to hide from him. He wanted her to continue. To speak of the demons that haunted her. He wanted to understand every aspect of her pain and fear so he would know how to help her.
“Why did Carson have to die?” she said on a sob. “He was so good. Never did anything to hurt anyone. He loved and adored Joss. He loved and protected me. He’s the only one who ever protected me. And yet he died and our father lives. It’s unfair,” she said again, anger seeping through the grief.
Jensen gently took her hand, curling it into his much larger one, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.
“Life isn’t fair, baby. And you’re right. It isn’t fair that the son of a bitch that fathered you is alive and well and Carson was killed. But little in life makes sense. We have to deal with the cards we’re dealt.”
“I hate that I can’t move on,” she whispered. “I hate it, Jensen. I hate being so weak. Do you understand that? I hate it!”
He squeezed her hand, offering his reassurance, when what he wanted most was to take her in his arms and simply hold her. Nothing else. Just hold her.
“You aren’t weak,” he denied. “I don’t pretend to know everything you’ve gone through, but I know enough to recognize you are a survivor. You didn’t allow yourself to be beaten down. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
She leaned into him, and whether it was conscious or not, he wasn’t complaining either way. Taking a chance, he let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her more firmly into his embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder and he could feel the exhaustion tugging at her. The need to simply rest without fear or memories of the past intruding.