Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  His gaze turned away, and his jaw ticked, his mouth opening but no words escaping. He glanced everywhere but at her face, his full, black lashes curtaining the windows to his soul.

  Maybe this is how men cried, she thought. Perhaps their pain was too big for tears, too obstinate and heavy. It felt like he was crying, but he fought hard not to shed a tear. And Callan, her warrior poet, won the battle.

  “Shh,” she whispered, pulling his heaving shoulders into her arms the way he often collected her. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.” She couldn’t bear to see him suffer—not even an intangible thought.

  His hands wrapped around her lower back, holding her with surprising tightness as he burrowed his face in her hair. His panted breaths beat at her neck, warm and intense. His emotions terrified her because she wasn’t sure she could match the level of friendship he’d shown her.

  “God, Em’ry...” he breathed, the words slipping out in a tortured rasp. “Forgive me.”

  Her hand petted over his hair, stroking. Her brow hardened as she stared at the sheet of opaque rain now hiding them away from the outside world.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  His arms tightened. “Aye, there is. I want ye with a fierceness I’ve no right to feel. I’ve not had an easy life, but denyin’ myself the right to talk to ye, touch ye, kiss your sweet lips... It’s an ache I have no comparison for.”

  Wretched inadequacy bloomed in her chest. If she wasn’t broken, he wouldn’t have to deny himself. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, love.”

  “Of course it is. If I wasn’t so damaged, we’d be able to have a normal relationship—”

  “You are not the damaged one.” He drew back, holding her by the ribs and looking at her with glassy eyes. “I’ve done terrible things, things that should never touch you. And I wear my sins like a second skin of scars. I’m tarnished by the wicked things I’ve done. There’s no more penance left for me in this world, and I’ve been hurting for so long, I dinnae remember how to love.” His gaze shifted and when he looked at her again, she felt the hooks of his soul latching onto hers, thrown in an almost desperate attempt to trap her, yet his words were meant to push her away. “You, Em’ry, deserve a flawless love, not a stingy one.”

  “Callan.” She breathed in and held it as if she might never draw a full breath again. “Are you in love with me?”

  More regret filled his eyes, pouring from him in waves. “I love ye like Hemingway loves the sea, with enough comprehension to fear it, respect it, and admit that it’s bigger than me by a million miles and too deep to ever know all its secrets. Every dawn I wake, grabbed by the desire to hold it to me. But these hands cannae hold love any more than they can hold the sea.”

  Her heart pounded as if hit by a battering ram. She grasped those beautiful, scarred hands and pressed her lips to his broad knuckles. “You can hold me, Callan.”

  “I dinnae want to break you.”

  Her tears dampened her fingers as she kissed the heel of his palm and pressed his hand to her cheek. “You won’t. I trust you.”

  “Em’ry, there’re a lot of parts of me you cannae trust. I need it that way. And ye have te believe I know what’s best here.”

  She trusted him. But he needed to trust her on this. Her hand held his to her face. “I don’t want you to fear your feelings for me. And when you’re grabbed by the desire to hold me, I want you to take it. I know I don’t always have the right reactions, but I trust you, Callan. You’re the only person who makes me feel safe and normal. You’re the only person strong enough to hold me, and careful enough not to break me.”

  His fingers slipped into her hair, his grip tightening. “I’m not as gentle as ye assume.”

  She nodded her understanding. “I know. I feel you holding back. Maybe it’s time you stop.”

  He jerked his hand away, a frown chiseling heavy divots between his eyes. “All I’ve ever done is fight. It’s the only thing I’m good at. And when it comes to love, all I’ve ever done is lost.”

  “You won’t lose me, Callan.”

  He shook his head, refusing to look at her.

  She couldn’t bear his doubt. She climbed onto his lap, wreathed her arms around his strong shoulders and brushed her lips over his hard jaw. “You’re not going to lose me. And you won’t break me. You think your past is all you are, but I see you, Callan MacGregor. You’re kind.” She kissed his ear. “You’re gentle.” His other ear. “You’re patient.” His temple. “And you’re strong. Stop fighting.” Her eyes searched his. “If you love me, I’ll love you back.”

  His hand caught the back of her neck and his mouth crushed to hers. Weight pressed over her as he turned and dropped her back to the couch. She kissed him hard, shoving down the nip of fear and proving to him that she could handle this, that she could handle him.

  His tongue stole into her mouth, demanding and seeking. The press of his muscled form sank her deeper into the sofa until it was all she could feel. Blanketing. Sheltering. Safe.

  Her fingers pulled through his hair as her body cushioned his. The defined jab of his erection digging into her belly made her still. He tore his mouth from hers and tucked his face over her shoulder, hiding in her hair. His breath panted in the silence.

  “I’m sorry.” He shifted, his weight pulling away from her, and she caught the back of his neck.

  “Wait.” They needed to get through this, or they’d continue to run into the same wall. “Just ... stay.”

  His body trembled over her, the rigid weight of him shaking with restraint. Her hand stroked down his spine, over the warm cotton of his shirt.

  “It’s okay, Callan.” If only he knew the way her body responded to him, but a woman’s tells were always a bit more disguised.

  The spasm of her thoughts threatened to drag her into a dark place, but she kept her head rooted in the now. She needed this, needed the contact and the help to break through this wall.

  Her lips pressed tight as she considered how long it might take to be normal again, the possibility that it might never happen. She couldn’t bear the thought.

  Swallowing tightly, her throat parched, she said, “Sink your weight into me.”

  His muscles tensed. “Em’ry—”

  “Please. I trust you.”

  He hesitated, but little by little she felt his tension melt away, and soon his bulk pressed down. Her heart raced, and her breathing pulled in erratic jerks. His arms still held some of his weight, but his lower body rested over her, molded to every curve, the inescapable proof of his desire jamming into her hip.

  The warm caress of his lips to her ear softened the punch of nerves. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m with you.”

  His voice settled her mind, and she shut her eyes. Callan. This was Callan. Her next swallow came a little easier, though neither of them seemed to handle intimacy the right way.

  Her lungs deepened, more air getting where it needed to go. “Now what?” she whispered.

  “I dinnae ken,” he rasped, his mouth close to her ear and his face hidden by her hair. The warm tickle of his breath sent a shiver through her.

  “Maybe you should kiss me again.”

  He didn’t move. “I’m afraid if I kiss ye, I willnae be able te stop.”

  “Maybe that’s okay.” She bit her lip. “I like when you kiss me.”

  He eased up, rising over her. “Dinnae panic.”

  She froze, her lashes fluttering shut as he closed the distance. The heat of his mouth captured hers. Warm, sensual lips caressed hers like feathering clouds. Slow licks delved, exploring with exquisite leisure.

  Her breast grew heavy, her chest pressing into his in search of an anchor. The moment she moved under him, gliding and arching, his hips rocked against her.

  “Em’ry...” Her name was a plea, a secret told, a gift from his lips to hers.

  Her knees lifted, bracketing his hips and rising against him. They found a rhythm, a shared ebb and
flow. Heat pooled and melted her insides. The kiss deepened. His hands on her body, on her clothes, tightened.

  They lost their rhythm. The kiss grew frantic, needy. Greedy.

  Panic nipped as she sensed his control slipping, but she forced herself to remain present. This was Callan. They could only move forward as a couple if she proved she could handle this, not because he required it, but because they both wanted it.

  His fist closed over her shirt just at the shoulder, pulling her collar tight. His hips jerked, and she gasped. He’d found a niche of heat in the cradle of her hips, and he thrust like he could somehow bury himself beneath her clothes.

  Her heart ripped out of rhythm as he thrust again, groaning into her mouth, taking pleasure, abusing the delicate threads of her shirt.

  She turned her face away, breaking the kiss, and his lips closed over her frantic pulse. “Callan?”

  His other hand caressed the underside of her jaw, angling her face away so he could press open-mouthed kisses down the entire length of her throat.

  The pop of threads preceded his groan as he dropped his mouth to the shallow dip of her shoulder, his hot tongue tracing the wing of her collarbone as he stretched the seams of her shirt.

  His hips stabbed, no longer rocking or gliding, but seeking. Her brave exploration suddenly became an endpoint for his pleasure, her panic a silenced backdrop she’d obscured with her insistent lies that she could handle this.

  He’d warned her, and she didn’t listen. Her chest tightened, her body cushioning his every thrust, and her mind spiraling.

  “I love ye, so much,” he rasped fiercely, shaking, trembling, groaning no matter how he tried to mask the desperations taking over him. “I’m sorry.”

  His weight sank into her again, this time without an ounce of restraint. He crushed her to the sofa. Trapped.

  Her erratic heart thundered in her ears as she tried to make sense of what just happened. She’d survived it. And while her fear had spiked, his muttered confession removed any regrets.

  But her memory told her this was not the way a man Callan’s age touched a woman. His desperate need and frantic grip spoke of innocence and inexperience. His apology and pained finish told of torment.

  Confused, she brushed a hand down his back, aiming to comfort him from whatever this was. “It’s okay,” she whispered.

  His breath sucked in, and a tortured sob trembled out with lacerating force. His body shook over hers, his arms sliding beneath her back to hold her tight. The gasping sound of his weeping sawed into the silence.

  “It’s okay,” she repeated, her own fear and confusion now second to his.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped and choked, hugging her to him with heartbreaking affection.

  “You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  A ravaged sob escaped, partially stifled, but not enough to hide whatever pain he suffered. “I love you,” he whispered, his damp lashes flicking against her skin. “I love you.” The words repeated on a loop as he pulled her closer, as if seeking a sort of intimacy beyond a sexual connection.

  She stroked his back, whispering promises that everything was fine and she loved him too. But deep down she knew whatever hid inside of him was not fine. Yet it belonged to him, would always be in him, and therefore, it was also part of her.

  Chapter Thirty

  Saratoga Springs, New York—America

  Present Day

  They’d fallen asleep, and when she awoke, Callan’s warm body stretched beside hers in a tangle of limbs. The rain had stopped, and darkness flooded the library. She needed to pee and tried to remember where the bathroom had been on their earlier tour.

  His arm tightened around her when she tried to slide out from under his weight. He tugged her back to him and nestled his face deeper into her shoulder. “No.”

  Her lips twitched at his defiant protest. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  He seemed to debate her request and then sighed, loosening his hold. “Promise you’ll come back.”

  She sat up and glanced at him, startled by the honest worry she found in his eyes. “I promise.”

  She found the bathroom down the hall and stared at her reflection as she washed her hands. Her tousled hair lifted in teased waves, the telltale sign of a man’s hands having been there.

  She smiled. Callan’s hands.

  Drying her fingers on the soft towel, she paused. A little pink stool was tucked under the pedestal sink.

  She opened the door, confused by the quiet house. Children were typically noisy. Where was everyone?

  She glanced down the hall to the library and back the other way to where the kitchen and other rooms were. The soft golden glow of lights beckoned where they spilled into the hall. As she approached, the gentle clatter of cookware met her ears, followed by the thick, roll of rhotic R’s pitched in a little sing-song voice.

  “Dae ye think Uncle Callan’s friend will like this?”

  “Oh, Aye. How can she not? You’ve made it with such attention te detail and tender lovin’ care.”

  Emery shifted silent feet closer, staying out of view but catching sight of Uma sitting on the counter using a spatula to spread the batter Elspeth poured into a pan. The scent of something savory teased her nose.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck, and she turned. Her breath sucked in as her gaze collided with Callan’s. He smiled and slowly approached.

  “Have I caught ye spyin’?”

  She leaned into him, her head resting on his chest as her eyes continued to watch them put the cake in the oven. “You have a little girl.”

  His smile curved against her temple. “Aye. Does that complicate matters?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all.”

  For the first time, her mind touched on the things the doctors had warned her about, uncertainties she hadn’t been prepared to hear. She watched Uma lick the spatula and laugh with such childish abandon at something Elspeth said.

  “You’re very lucky,” she whispered.

  He kissed her temple and tightened his arms around her. “They’ll be a while longer. I want te show ye something.”

  When they returned to the library, she noted that his shoes were gone and he’d changed his jeans. There was something enchanting about Callan walking around in white, cotton socks—surreal.

  He led her to the sofa again, and when she sat, he opened his hand in a staying motion as if she might run away. He moved to the desk and collected a leather-bound journal.

  “You said you wanted to know me.”

  She sat up and nodded. “I do.”

  “I dinnae want you te ken the Callan I was in Scotland. I want te be better for you.”

  “Okay.” But she would always wonder who that Callan was and what brought him here. “I just want to know you—whoever you are right now.”

  His lashes lowered. His fingers clutched the leather cover of the book in his hands, his thumb running an affectionate stroke along the spine. Sublime anticipation sweetened the air as he opened the journal.

  She waited silently as he turned several pages. His lips pressed and he cleared his throat, his voice working through a web of gravel as he softly read.

  “One day, I hope to be the rain, sliding down her skin, washing away whatever came before. Should I be the salt on her cheeks, the cause of just one tear, I’d fall like a wave into my grave on the edge of my own spear. But to be the rain dancing over her skin, too wee for any memory, inconspicuous to my Emery, I’d give all I have ever been.”

  Startled by his words so delicately wrapped around her name, she was struck too dumb to even formulate a reply.

  His eyes met hers, and a deep flush washed across his cheeks, his gaze dropping back to the pages. His fingers moved backward, working closer to the start of the book. He drew in a deep breath.

  “I cannot figure out why I’m so drawn to her. Perhaps it’s her beauty, the way I’m envious of the air she breathes and the clothes that have permi
ssion to touch her skin. But it’s deeper than wanting, heavier than simple petulant lust. And no matter how wretched I ken I am, I long for her to see me. Yet, it’s for her, that I hide.”

  “When did you write that?”

  His brows pulled together, and he swallowed. “Just after we met—a little over three years ago.”

  Her jaw unhinged and she gaped at him. All this time? She felt ripped off, deprived of something radiant. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “I did. I said it every day since the minute I met you.” He shut the book. “In here.”

  Her head shook. She would have known if he felt this way—should have known. The collision of so many missed opportunities made her motion sick. “Callan, I’ve...” They could have been happy. They could have avoided so much. “I’ve had a crush on you since the day you started working at the hotel. I can’t believe neither of us had the guts to say anything. What’s wrong with us?”

  “Sometimes, we know when to back away, love. Even if we dinnae always trust the scream.”

  She scowled. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  He tossed the journal on the desk and closed his fists, pressing them into the surface until they popped. The corded muscles of his back stretched the worn cotton of his shirt as he turned away from her.

  “You’re my sacrosanct fetish, my obsession too valuable to touch. From the first time I saw ye, I’ve not been able to look away. I dinnae ken how to love you, but I know I feel somethin’ deeper for you than I’ve ever felt for anyone. And I know, earlier, on the couch, you felt...” He cleared his throat. “Well, ye see I dinnae ken how to always be delicate. And I fear, now more than ever, ye need a man with a delicate touch.”

  She rose from the couch, crossing the carpet with silent steps. He flinched when she pressed her hand to his back.

  “I don’t want lies between us, Callan. You might not always be gentle, but there’s truth in the way you touch me.” Something worried her, warned her that truth came from hurt and hurt might be all he knew. “Maybe we need to stop being so gentle with each other. Maybe that’s what trust is.”