Torture to Her Soul(28)

I have half a dozen reasons not to trust her, not to believe a single word she says. History certainly is on my side when it comes to that family. But I just told her this wasn't her fault. Holding it against her now would make me less of a man than I try to be… less of a man than I want to be.

Leaning my head back again, I close my eyes, drawing on her words from just days ago about the coffee machine. "Thank you for the blanket, Karissa. I appreciate it."

Give and take, I remind myself. There has to be give and take.

"You're welcome." Her voice is quiet. I feel her legs brush against mine, get a whiff of her fragrant perfume as she shifts closer, seconds later feeling her soft lips against my cheek. "Sweet dreams."

Sweet dreams. It's a nice sentiment.

But my dreams are never sweet.

I only have nightmares.

Memories.

The same one, over and over, time and time again.

The pain.

The anguish.

The gunshots.

Bang.

BANG

I drift off to sleep again right there on the couch, in and out of consciousness the rest of the night, trying to shift position, trying to get comfortable, but there's no relief to be found. Something wakes me around dawn, early morning sunshine streaming through the windows and illuminating the wooden floor, casting everything around me in gold tones. I'm shivering, heart racing wildly, a cold sweat coating my body from head to toe.

I need a shower.

And a fucking shave.

Something.

I lay completely still, straining my ears to try to riddle out what disturbed me, swallowing back the swell of nausea when I realize it was the front door.

It opened, and closed, the locks jingling. Soft footsteps descend upon the house, restrained like someone is trying to sneak from the living room into the kitchen, things shifting around, drawers opening.

Forcing myself up, I grasp the bandaged wound on my side, holding it like I'm trying to hold myself together. I slowly make my way out of the den, on alert, vision fuzzy and head foggy.

I'm a fucking mess.

If someone tried to attack me right now, they'd take me down easily. My blinks are accentuated by blackness, my reactions slowed.

I quietly make my way toward the kitchen and pause in the doorway, a sense of relief calming the tension in my muscles when I see it's Karissa. Just Karissa. She's dressed in a pair of cut-off jean shorts, barely covering her curvy backside, and a white tank top that's downright sinful.

I lean against the doorframe, unable to sustain all my weight on my tired legs, as I watch her. I need some energy back, and I need it back quick. Just staggering here took it all out of me. A few grocery bags surround her on the floor that she digs through, pulling things out to put away. Her earbuds are in her ears, the faint sound of music reaching me.

I wonder what she's listening to, but I don't ever ask.

She takes a fresh box of Cocoa Puffs and reaches up on her tiptoes to shove it onto the top of a cabinet. Her shirt rides up as she does, my eyes drawn to the sliver of exposed skin. She can be self-conscious about her body sometimes, especially when she catches me watching her, tugging fabric to cover up places she doesn't want me to look. It's senseless, though, because I know every inch of her.

I memorized every curve and crevice, every scar and scratch marking her skin. It's unforgettable, the dimples on the small of her back, the ridges of her ribcage when she's stretched out straight, the strain of her fingers when they clutch onto me, the curl of her toes when pleasure overwhelms her. She's perfectly imperfect, down to the scattering of freckles along her back and dotting her flushed cheeks.

Everything about her is beautiful to me.

Even when she's scowling, when she's angry and full of hate. She's beautiful when she cries, when she's in the throes of grief. She's beautiful when she smiles, when she laughs at me. But she's the most beautiful when she's doing nothing. When she thinks nobody's looking, when she thinks she's alone. Her walls are down, her defenses off, and the real Karissa shines through. She's pensive and passive, a calm breeze in the middle of a storm that somehow pacifies me. She gets lost somewhere up in that head of hers, and as much as I hate when she overthinks things, she's goddamn beautiful when she does it.

If I were hard pressed to explain why I fell in love with her, that would be my answer. Because she's beautiful. And I don't mean it in a superficial way. You're not going to find her on the cover of a magazine. She's more the kind you find at a museum, on a painting or in a piece of literature. Her beauty is in her soul.

She has enough of that for both of us.

Karissa drops down flat on her feet and turns back to the bags, jumping when she catches me standing here. She yanks the earbuds out, the music growing a little louder, as she lets out a gasp. "Jesus, you're practically an invalid and you still sneak up on me!"