Anchor Me

by J. Kenner

  I want Damien--I need him. But he's not here, and I'm so goddamn lost.

  My chest aches from gasping--from trying to catch a breath through the body-wracking sobs. I need something--no, not something. I need pain. Release.

  I need to cut.

  Just one simple swipe of a blade to release the storm that is raging inside me. Nothing more than steel against skin. Just a quick flick and it would be done. Just one cut. Just one clean line of blood.

  It would be enough.

  And it would be so easy. So very easy.

  I'm breathing calmer now, and I climb to my feet, then go over to the library-style ladder. I move it down the rail to the corner, then climb to the top. There's a decorative hat box in the back corner, and I draw it to me, then carefully climb down and put the box on the floor.

  I kneel beside it, then yank off the top. The box is full of memorabilia, and I paw through it, looking for the small leather case of antique scalpels I'd tucked away here. Not because I ever thought I would need it, but as a reminder that I had the strength to never touch it again.

  But I don't have the strength. I'm not strong at all.

  It's there, the brown leather smooth from handling. I take it out and hold it in my palm, imagining the gleaming blades. The way the sharp instruments will twinkle like fairies in the dim light of this closet. And the way the cool steel will feel against my too-hot flesh. The release. That sharp, exquisite pain that can conquer the raging inside me.

  Slowly, I unzip the case and stare at those perfect, beautiful blades.

  I can do this.

  I need to do this.

  I want it to do this. I want it, dammit. I want it, I want it, I want it.

  Except I don't.

  What I want is Damien, and with a scream of frustration so raw it hurts my throat, I hurl the scalpel set across the closet. The still-open case thuds against the wall by the open door, jarring the instruments from their compartments and scattering them across the floor.

  I start to lunge for them, then force myself back with a fierce cry of, "No."

  And then I curl up by the granite island, press my forehead to my knees, and cry.

  I'm still on the floor when I feel Damien's hands on my back, then gripping my waist. "Did you cut?" He turns me over and then runs his hands down my legs, his movements crisp, his eyes full of purpose. "Dammit, Nikki, the floor is littered with blades. Did you cut?"

  "No." I choke the word out. "I wanted to--I think I meant to--but no. No, I swear, no."

  He pulls me violently to him, then presses kisses to my lips, my face, my hair. He cradles me hard against his chest, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. "Nikki, oh, God, Nikki. I came home. The door was open, and the box for that damn crib was right there. Then I saw the shattered wine glass, the shards everywhere. I couldn't find you, baby. Christ, it took forever to find you."

  His voice breaks, and he bends his head so that his forehead is pressed against mine. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here, baby. I'm so, so sorry."

  I don't realize that I've started crying again until I try to speak and choke on my own tears. I give up and just cling to him, letting the tears flow as he rocks me.

  "I thought I was better," I say when I can finally squeeze out words. "I thought I was healing. I didn't . . . I don't . . ." I shake my head and try again. "I don't know what happened. I saw the box, and I just--" A wet sob breaks out of me, and I shudder, then look down, feeling stupidly ashamed.

  "No," he says, tilting my head up. "Tell me."

  I meet his eyes and see my own pain reflected there.

  "It's more than just losing the baby," I whisper. "It's that I probably can't ever have one."

  "Sweetheart," he whispers, the word holding so much pain I fear I'm going to start crying again.

  "We lost more than a child, Damien. We lost the possibility of one. It's like I lost us the future. Our future."

  "No," he says firmly. "Sweetheart, no."

  "I thought I was healing," I tell him again. "But I don't know how to move forward. I can't," I say as fresh tears trickle down my cheeks. "I can't do this without you."

  "Baby, I'm right here."

  "No. No," I repeat, and this time my voice comes out strong, fueled by the same sadness and frustration that pushes me to my feet. "You're not here," I say. "But dammit, Damien, you need to be. You're just as ripped up as I am, don't you see that?"

  I pace the length of the closet, my heart pounding in my chest. "You went after Tanner. You're beating the shit out of that punching bag downstairs. You're hurting and you're finding relief everywhere you can--but not with me, Damien." My voice breaks. "Not with me."

  He looks at me, and as he rises to his feet, I see a new kind of pain behind his eyes. A pain of recognition. Of regret. "Nikki--"

  But I'm not done. "You're treating me with kid gloves," I say. "But dammit, you know what I need. And you need it, too. But you're denying us both because you're treating me like some fragile fucking thing. But I'm not fragile--I'm strong. You're the one who's always telling me so. But I'm strong with you, Damien. Without you I break. Without you, I'm that," I say, pointing to the scalpels on the floor.

  "Please," I beg. "Don't hold back. Don't turn away from us. You see me so clearly. You always have. So don't pretend you don't understand. Help me," I beg, my words tumbling out like a waterfall, wild and rough. "Help me be strong, and you--"

  But I don't finish, because he's pushing me back, slamming me against the rack of clothes, his hands tight around my upper arms, and his mouth attacking mine with such fervor that our teeth clash and I taste blood.

  "Is this what you need?" he asks, breaking away long enough to tug the sash from my silk robe that hangs just a few feet to his right. "For me to take you hard? To fuck you? To use you? Do you want feel the sting of my palm against your ass? Do you want me to tie you down so that there's no escape? So that you have to feel everything? Pleasure, pain, unrelenting and unforgiving?"

  "Yes," I whisper, closing my eyes. He knows that's exactly what I need, and the fact that he's finally back rips through me like a storm. I'm wildly turned on, and desperately relieved. My body is on fire. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples tight. And I'm so damn wet.

  He slides his hands down my arms until he reaches my wrists, and then he yanks my arms up. I gasp, my eyes flying open, and I melt a little bit more at the open passion and heat I see on his face. He uses one end of the sash to bind my wrists together, and then ties the opposite end to the dress-height closet pole, so that I'm forced to stand upright, my arms above my head.

  I'm wearing casual work clothes--a simple silk tank top paired with a pencil skirt, and he teases his fingertip down from my wrist to the shoulder strap of the tank, then traces the outline of the V-neck against my skin. "Do you like this shirt?" he asks, but before I can answer he's grabbed either side of the V and pulled it apart like a jacket. The fragile material rips open to expose my bra. The sound is sharp and dangerous--and wonderfully enticing.

  "I'll buy you another," he says as he tugs down my bra, freeing my breasts, then squeezes one nipple so hard I cry out.

  "Tell me why," he demands, still pinching my nipple. He bends forward to whisper in my ear. "Tell me why you thought about cutting. Tell me why you need the pain."

  "Because--" I can't get the words out past the sensations that are flooding me. Pain. Pleasure. Heat. Desire.

  A hot cord seems to connect my breast to my cunt to my wrists to my lips to every cell in my body. I'm so turned on that even the whisper of a breath over my clit would send me over the edge--but I don't want that. Not yet. I want to stay here, balanced on a knife edge, teetering in that netherland between pain and pleasure, desire and satisfaction.

  Damien knows that--dammit, he's always known that. And thank God he's back and finally--finally--taking me there.

  "Tell me," he presses. "Why do you need the pain?"

  "To turn it around," I say, forcing the words out. "To draw it in and tu
rn it around and battle it down. To know that I can win." I meet his eyes. "To control it," I say, "and turn something hard into something exceptional."

  "Pain into pleasure," he murmurs, pinching my nipple even tighter. "Is that what I give you? Is that what you want?"

  "Yes," I say. "God, yes."

  "Good girl." He releases my nipple, and I cry out from the cold, sharp rush of blood that returns, the sensation like a hot wire extending from my breast to my core.

  "And what do I need, baby?" he asks as he turn me around so that I'm facing the hanging clothes. "Why does having you here make me hard? Why does seeing you bound and your ass red from my palm make me want to fuck you until you scream my name?"

  "Control," I whisper, and hear his sharp sigh of agreement. "Because even if the world is crashing down around us and it feels like there's nothing you can control, you can still control me. Please," I beg, because his words have taken me that much further. "Please."

  He pulls my skirt up, then yanks my panties down around my ankles. I step out of them, and he strokes my rear. I close my eyes, imagining the sting of his palm. Craving it. So much sweeter than the blade, and yet still giving me something to cling to so that I can pull myself out of the mire.

  "I will always give you what you need," he says, punctuating the final word with his palm on my ass. I cry out, imagining the red flush on my skin, and then close my eyes as he rubs his palm over the tender flesh. "Whatever and however you need it," he says, then spanks me again, this time sliding his fingers between my legs after the impact, then moaning when he finds me wet and open and ready.

  "You like that." It's not a question, and I'm glad he knows the answer because I'm too gone to answer. I hear his zipper and then the soft swish of material as he sheds his clothes. I expect the press of his cock against me, but instead I feel his fingers tracing my perineum, and making me tremble with anticipation.

  He spanks me again and again. Four times, five, until I can't take it anymore. Not the pain--it's shifted into something warm and compelling--but the desperate throbbing. The need to feel him inside me. And I beg for him to please, please fuck me.

  "Anything you need," he says, this time with a tease in his voice. He turns me around, and with my wrists still bound, he lifts me so that my legs are around him as he enters me, and he's holding my ass in one hand and keeping me steady with his other palm against my back.

  I'm completely open, totally vulnerable, and he's entirely in control. He takes me hard and fast, thrusting so deep inside me I feel as though I'll split in two. And when a violent orgasm rips through me, I tremble in his arms, my core clenching tight around him, drawing him in until he explodes inside me, and then holds me close, suspended in the air even as my senses come back to earth.

  When we can move, he has me slide my legs down, then unties the sash. We collapse to the floor and curl up together. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs. "I never meant to pull away. I never meant for there to be distance. I only wanted you to have the chance to heal."

  "How could I without you?"

  "How could we if not together?" he says, and that is enough apology for me.

  When we finally emerge from the closet, Damien takes my hand. "Get dressed," he says. "There's something we need to do."

  I'm not sure what he has in mind, but I pull on jeans and a T-shirt and follow him out to the third-floor sitting area. He looks around the room, finally picking up the pot of daisies that Jamie and Ryan had sent. "Come on," he says, leading me to the stairs.

  I follow him outside, and we go to the edge of the house where there's a small flower garden. Someone left a spade on the bench, and since I know the staff well enough to know none of them would leave a tool lying around, I'm certain that Damien put it there earlier.

  I look up at him curiously. "What are we--"

  "We're planting the flowers," he says. "In her memory."

  My eyes burn, but I don't cry. Instead I nod, a little overwhelmed and a lot melancholy. Then I bend to my knees and take the spade he offers me. I dig a hole, and he puts the flowers inside, then pats the earth back down around it.

  We sit there for a moment, and I realize I don't know what to say. But Damien speaks first. "Rest in peace, sweet baby," he says, and I nod. That, I think, is enough.

  We sit on the bench and share the bittersweet moment in silence until, finally, I speak. "Mother said it was for the best." I hadn't told him at the time, but now I want him to know. Not only what she said, but that I can deal with her words, now. "She said I could never be a good mother."

  His eyes search my face. "Do you believe her?"

  "No. I did--or I wanted to. I felt so kicked in the gut." I flash a sharp grin. "I'm feeling stronger now."

  "Your mother is a fool, because you would have made an exceptional mother to that child. You know it as well as I do, but you let your mother get in your head. That woman doesn't deserve to walk the same ground you do, much less get inside your mind."

  "I know," I say, but I must not sound convincing, because he continues.

  "You think the fact that you cut means you'd be a bad mother? I think the fact that you battled down the temptation--that you constantly prove your strength--is proof that you'll be an excellent parent."

  He squeezes my hand as I let his words wash over me, giving me another kind of strength. "She says you're weak? You're not. But even if you were, so what? Strength without weakness is just a number. But you, baby . . . you can point to how far you've come."

  "With you beside me," I remind him.

  "And you beside me. You're my strength, Nikki. We both know that. And there's no shame in needing the person you love." His smile touches his eyes. "I actually think that's the point."

  I laugh, and taste the salt of my tears as I do.

  "I love you," I say. Then I take his hand as we both look down at the freshly planted daisies.

  It's time to move on, I think. And with Damien at my side, I know that I can.

  25

  The next few weeks pass swiftly and easily, solidifying my certainty that even if we aren't fully healed, we're definitely on the path.

  Noah's no longer working for me, though he did help me vet the two new employees who took his place, and they're settling in quickly. Eric and Abby, both of whom are not only competent but personable.

  I've made two trips back to Dallas, and Damien came with me both times. The meetings went well, and everything for the project is going smoothly--we're even a full week ahead of schedule.

  Best of all, there were no ghosts in Dallas.

  Now, I sit quietly at my desk before Eric and Abby arrive and go over my notes from last night's conference call with Bijan. I want to organize them quickly so that I can pass them off to Abby to handle, as I've got something else I need to take care of.

  I've spent the last week with something other than work sneaking into my thoughts. I've logged hours on the Internet, reading and researching. I know exactly what I want to do.

  And I desperately hope that Damien agrees with me.

  At a quarter to nine, Abby pops her head into my office, her blond curls bobbing. "Hey, just wanted you to know I'm here. I'm going to dive into debugging that--"

  "Hold that thought," I say. "I just emailed you my notes from last night's conference. Can you go through them, prioritize the tasks, and then divide the work between you and Eric?"

  "Um, sure." She frowns. "You don't want to do that yourself?"

  I laugh, because she's gotten to know me pretty well in a short time. "I'm working on my delegation skills," I say. "Plus, there's somewhere I need to be. You up for it?"

  "Absolutely," she says, standing tall. She's young, but ambitious, and now that I've handed her this project, it shows. "Take your time," she says. "Take the day if you need to."

  "I might," I say, then grab my purse. "I'll let you know."

  I'm smiling as I take the stairs down to the lobby, then out to the parking lot. And that same smile is on my face when I reach
the Stark Children's Foundation camp site.

  Damien's already there, leaning against a hewn wooden post and answering emails on his phone. He looks up when he sees me, his brow furrowed. "Should I be worried?"

  "Worried? Why?"

  He cocks his head then starts ticking reasons off on his fingers. "Because you're deep in the thick of the project, you talked to Bijan last night, and you wouldn't leave Abby or Eric in charge this soon without a very good reason."

  "All true. I do have a good reason. But there's nothing to worry about." I head toward the path that leads around the main building. "I want to show you something."

  We walk together to the back of the building, then climb the stairs that lead up to a second-floor balcony. From there, we have a view of the campsite, and all the kids who are out there. Some playing ball, some swimming. A few riding horses in the distance. Some are just sitting in small groups talking with each other.

  All of them look happy.

  "You did that, you know," I say.

  I see the question on his face when he turns to look at me.

  "This place," I explain. "You built it, and it's amazing. Because of you, these kids have life in their faces. They know somebody cares about them."

  "Yes," he says, though he sounds a bit confused. "That's the most fundamental goal of the foundation."

  "Your foundation." I take his hand. "You'll make an incredible father, you know."

  I hear his breath hitch. We haven't talked about kids in weeks, though I know we both sit on the bench by the daisies often.

  "Don't do this to yourself, baby," he says softly. "Don't do it to me."

  I don't answer. I just give him a tug. "Follow me," I order, then lead him through the door that leads from the balcony to the building's second floor. We take the stairs, and then head down the corridor to his office. Inside, I log onto his computer and go to a website that I've been spending a great deal of time exploring.

  "There," I say pointing to the screen.

  He focuses on it, so long that I start to worry he hates the idea. Then he turns to me, and I see the same hope on his face that I feel in my heart. "Adoption," he says. "You want to adopt a baby from China?"

  "A toddler, actually," I say. "And yes. I've been thinking about it for a while." I take his hand. "I want this. I want a family, Damien. I want us to have a family."