Wounded Hearts

by Julia Sykes

  “I am,” I said, probably more eagerly than I should have. “I can write this evening. That’s one of the best things about my career: I can make my own schedule.”

  “I love that,” he said, his small smile belying the intensity in his eyes. “It’s great that you love your career.”

  I do the things I do so people like you can be safe and live the lives they want. I remembered what he’d said that night in Nashville. He put his life on the line so I could be free and happy, so I could live in a safe bubble while he risked everything to protect people like me.

  The knowledge was overwhelming. It made me feel insignificant and a little unworthy.

  I squeezed his hand. “Thank you.” I was thanking him for so much more than the kind comment about my career.

  He cleared his throat. “So, what do you want to do today? I’d love to see more of the city.”

  I grinned, genuinely excited to share my love of York with him. “We should start with Stonegate. It’s my favorite street in town. Then the Minster, I think, and we can go to lunch on The Shambles after. If we have time, we can do Clifford’s Tower and the Yorkshire Museum.”

  He returned my smile, his eyes glinting with pleasure. “Sounds great.”

  We paid the bill and made our way down the crooked, narrow stairs to get back to street level. When we stepped out into the sunlight, Scott caught my hand again. He held it as we walked through the city, as though the intimate contact was the most natural thing in the world.

  It did feel natural, comfortable. It also made me very aware of his nearness, and the way his big hand enveloped mine reminded me of how much stronger he was, how his body covered mine when he drove his cock inside my wet and willing sex…

  “Are you too warm?” he asked.

  I could feel my cheeks heating. Damn my rosy skin for giving away my thoughts so easily.

  “A little,” I said, deciding to slip out of my jacket. The spring air helped cool my heated skin. “This is Stonegate,” I announced.

  We’d arrived at the western end of the ancient street. Medieval shop fronts jutted along the road in a drunken line, dark wooden beams sagging from age. The Minster wasn’t visible here, but the golden edifice would peek between the buildings as we made our way down the paved path.

  “Why is it your favorite street?” Scott asked as we began to walk.

  “The view is amazing, for one. Just wait until we get to the Ye Olde Starre Inne pub. You’ll see.”

  We meandered down the street, walking slowly so we could take in the beauty of the city. I’d seen this view countless times, but it never ceased to amaze me. Sharing it with someone was especially satisfying. Watching their appreciation was almost as magical as experiencing the city for the first time myself.

  “Wow,” Scott said with a smile, his head tilted up to take in the view.

  A black iron banner emblazoned with Ye Olde Starre Inne in gold lettering spanned the width of the street above our heads. Ahead, the buildings that lined the street wound gently to the left, revealing the first glimpse of the Minster. It shined so brightly in the morning light that the stone appeared almost pearly white.

  “It’s a beautiful cathedral,” he remarked.

  “Minster,” I declared.

  “What’s the difference?” He seemed genuinely curious rather than affronted that I’d corrected him.

  “It’s the title given to churches established in the Anglo-Saxon period. The origins of York Minster date back to the seventh century. Even cooler: it’s built on top of what used to be the heart of the Roman fortress, so excavations beneath the Minster have revealed some really fascinating Roman archaeology. There’s a Roman column set up in the square ahead.”

  A wide smile split his features, but he didn’t say anything.

  “What?” I asked, a bit self-conscious.

  “You’re a really passionate person.”

  I shifted on my feet, nervous that he might be mocking me for my nerdy enthusiasm. “Oh. Sorry, I don’t mean to bore you with all the history stuff. I just think it’s cool.”

  “I love that you’re passionate.” He allayed my mounting discomfiture. “And it is cool. Tell me more about York. I don’t know anything about the city or its history.”

  “Be careful what you ask for; I’ll talk your ear off.”

  His smile broadened. “Talk away. I like hearing what you have to say.”

  Again, I was struck by the sense that he was completely focused on me. When he looked at me so intently, I could believe that he really did find me fascinating.

  “Well, if you’re sure. I can give you a tour of the Minster when we get to the end of the street.”

  “I’m sure. I’d love to learn more about it.”

  “Oh, wait.” I paused. “Do you mind if I take a look in this window? I love this place.”

  He glanced at the shop sign. “Cavendish Antiques?” he said with a wry smile. “What is it you like about it? The jewelry or the history behind it?”

  “Both. I love holding pieces of history. Knowing that the piece meant something to someone who lived in the past is incredible. You have to wonder what their lives were like. What their hopes and dreams were. If they were happy. Also, I like all the shiny,” I joked to cut the weight of my words.

  He stepped up beside me, surveying the glittering contents of the window display. “What’s your favorite piece?”

  “I love the Edwardian pendants.” I pointed at a particularly lovely white gold necklace. The intricate curves of the metal recalled the appearance of a chandelier, accentuated by the oblong freshwater pearls that dripped from it. It was smaller than some of the other pieces, more understated. “I’ve had my eye on this one for ages,” I admitted. “It’s been here for a couple years.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  “It’s elegant. I’ve been looking for a unique necklace I can wear every day, and this would be perfect. I used to wear an antique key every day, but I…I don’t wear it anymore.” I cut off what I was going to say. Scott didn’t need to know about that.

  He was watching me too intently for me to escape his scrutiny. “Why not?”

  I cut my eyes away. “My husband gave it to me,” I said in an undertone. “It was a symbol of our relationship. It meant I belonged to him.” I lifted my chin and met Scott’s blue gaze, feeling suddenly defiant. “I want a necklace that means I belong to myself. Something I can wear every day and know that I’m free.”

  He studied me in silence for a long moment. “You should get this one,” he finally said.

  I shook my head. “It’s too extravagant. I’ll keep looking.” I stepped away from the window, suddenly uncomfortable. I’d revealed far too much. I wanted this day to be carefree; I wanted a beautiful day with Scott that I could cherish once he disappeared from my life again.

  “Let’s get to the Minster,” I urged, tugging him back onto the street.

  He didn’t resist or press me to talk about my pain. When we got into the Minster, he mostly let me chatter at him about the history of the church, asking the occasional insightful question. After a while, my cheerfulness returned, and I moved past the awkward, intense moment in front of the antique store. When I was with Scott, I was able to forget about my worries. Being in his presence was intoxicating. I didn’t want him to leave.

  I didn’t allow myself to think about his impending departure. Instead, I chose to live in the moment with him.

  Chapter 6

  “Please tell me you’ve read Harry Potter,” I said fervently as we stepped onto The Shambles. The narrow Medieval street was purportedly one of the sources of inspiration for Diagon Alley. Therefore, it was fitting that York’s first and best Harry Potter shop was located here.

  The Shop That Must Not Be Named opened up to our left, the display window full of Quidditch paraphernalia. I bounded up to the shop to stare inside, tugging Scott along in my wake.

  “I’ve read them,” he confirmed. “Several years ago.”
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  “And?” I demanded, turning a challenging stare on him. “What did you think?”

  His response might affect my opinion of him.

  His grin hit me square in the chest. “I thought they were great. I usually read thrillers, but I really enjoyed the Harry Potter series.” His smile turned sly. “Although, a certain someone has turned me on to romance novels recently. At least, by one esteemed author.”

  I blushed and poked his chest. It was stone beneath my finger. “I’m not esteemed,” I insisted, trying to ignore the rush of lust that surged through my system. The reminder of his hard body that was concealed by his bright blue button-down was enough to get me hot for him.

  “You shouldn’t downplay your accomplishments.” He grasped my finger where I’d poked him, squeezing my hand in reprimand.

  There was an answering squeeze between my legs. Was he being domineering on purpose? Or was this a natural reaction?

  I shook it off before I could become more hopelessly enamored with him. We only had a few hours left together. I’d enjoy what time we had, and then I’d be left with a happy memory.

  I tried to pretend it wouldn’t torment me, once I was alone again.

  “Do you want to see the inside?” I asked. “It’s a really cool shop.”

  “Sure,” he agreed, crossing the threshold with me. He didn’t take his eyes off me to study the wizarding décor. “What Hogwarts house are you?”

  “Ravenclaw,” I answered definitively. “Let me guess. You’re a Gryffindor.”

  “Of course.”

  His smile really was sinfully sexy. I liked when he smiled more than when he stared into my soul. It was easier to be with him like this: carefree, happy. Not peering at the raw, ugly things inside me.

  “Why Ravenclaw?” he pressed.

  “I love books and learning. Education is the best way to better society. It’s the most important thing in the world. Although, I do love Hermione, so that’s a point in Gryffindor’s favor. She’s so badass. I wanted to be like her when I was growing up: intelligent, brave, and loyal.”

  “I’d say that’s an accurate description of you.” He was staring into me again, his pale eyes pinning me in place.

  I tore my gaze away and immediately picked up a plushy Hedwig stuffed animal. “I think it would be really cool to have an owl,” I babbled. “But I’m a cat lady, so I’d probably have a cat instead if I were a witch. Or both. Both would be good.”

  “You’re really cute, you know.” The words rumbled with mirth.

  My gaze snapped back to his to assess if he was mocking me. I detected nothing but warmth in his sparkling eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what I said: you’re cute. There’s something innocent about you.”

  My cheeks burned as I thought about all the depraved things I’d written. Things that he’d read.

  “I’m not innocent,” I mumbled.

  He stepped closer to me, inserting himself in my space as his hands bracketed my waist. My head tipped back so I could meet his eyes, and I found myself trapped by his steady stare. “You are. It’s not something I get to see often. Don’t ever lose that.”

  “You don’t know me,” I protested weakly. “Not really.”

  “I know enough,” he said firmly. “Never change.”

  Never change. He’d issued the same low, soulful command on our first night together; the night he’d seen only a fantasy of me. Surely, he was beginning to see me more clearly now. I’d given him far too many glimpses at my damage over the last twenty-four hours.

  If he wanted a fantasy of me, he could have it. He must need it. Thinking he was protecting something good and pure probably kept him going on his darkest days.

  I swallowed further words of defiance. He didn’t need to know the real me: the mess of a woman who could barely get out of bed every day. Besides, it felt nice being his fantasy woman. I longed to be her. She had worth. She wasn’t damaged beyond repair, her life empty and meaningless.

  He plucked the owl from my fingers. “I’ll get this for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I don’t need it.”

  “You like it. I want to get it for you.”

  “I… Okay.” I knew I should refuse. It was inappropriate to accept a gift from Scott. He was buying it for a woman who didn’t exist, not for me.

  But a selfish part of me wanted it. I wanted something sweet to remember this day.

  “Thanks,” I added as I accompanied him to the register.

  He paid for the stuffed animal, and the cashier placed it in a black and gold gift bag. I accepted it with another “thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Scott smiled down at me and took my hand again. I loved how he didn’t seem to want to release me, not even for a minute.

  “Do you want lunch?” I asked. “There’s a great place just down the street. They do a prosecco high tea.”

  “Sure,” he agreed, easily accepting my suggestion.

  We walked the short distance to the Earl Grey Tea Rooms, where we were ushered to a table on the back terrace. The sun was high and hot—unusual for York this time of year. I tilted my face back to soak in the sunshine and took in a deep, blissful breath.

  When I lowered my eyes again, I found him watching me with a small smile. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly, cutting my eyes away as I took my seat beside him. I picked up the menu and started to peruse it, giving myself a reason to divert my attention from him.

  I could still feel his heavy gaze on me.

  “You are beautiful,” he said, more solemnly.

  I peeked up at him. “Thanks,” I said lamely. His attention was overwhelming. I’d built up my self-confidence in my twenties, but I still wasn’t great at taking a compliment. When Thomas had told me I was beautiful, the praise was usually followed by a critique of my shortcomings as a partner.

  “You don’t believe me,” he surmised.

  I shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that, necessarily. It’s just…” I didn’t want to go into the mindfucks Thomas had put me through. I didn’t want to ruin this perfect day. “I appreciate the compliment,” I hedged.

  He regarded me in silence for a moment longer before nodding. “You’re welcome.”

  He looked down at his own menu, breaking the tension. “What’s good here?”

  I let out a small breath of relief. “We really should do the high tea. It’s super fancy. You get a sandwich, a scone with jam and cream, and a slice of cake. It’s wonderfully British. Oh, and it comes with a glass of prosecco.”

  “Shouldn’t it come with tea?”

  “I mean, you can get it with tea, if you want. I just think the bubbly is fun. And it’s a nice day to sit outside and have a cool drink. Tea would be really hot, you know?”

  “All right,” he agreed. “Prosecco it is.”

  A waitress arrived, and we put in our order. When she left, Scott started questioning me again.

  “What are you working on right now? Your book, I mean.” One corner of his lips twisted up. “Another ménage?”

  “Oh god,” I groaned. “Please, don’t tease me about that. I’m so mortified that you read it.”

  “Why? It was really interesting.”

  “Interesting?” I squeaked, his word choice confirming my worst suspicions. He’d thought it was ridiculous, surely.

  “Well, I thought the dynamic between three people was a little… Well, different. But it helped me understand your lifestyle better. It wasn’t violent. They really cared about her.”

  “Of course they did.” I waved off his observation, trying to ignore the way my heart tugged at the idea of being cared for and cherished. “It’s a romance novel.”

  “Some of your other books aren’t like that,” he countered. “Some of them are really dark. Why did you write those? Surely, no woman wants to be kidnapped and abused.”

  “It’s not about promoting that,” I said, suddenly fervent. �
�It’s about helping women embrace darker facets of their sexuality. A lot of women have those fantasies, but no one would ever want that in real life. I think it’s a biological imperative that’s built into a lot of us; our bodies have learned to accept nonconsensual sexual interactions to survive. It’s been that way for women for millennia. Some of us have these fantasies, and they can be confusing or bring on shame. By writing these books, I’m allowing women to explore that aspect of their sexuality in a safe way. It’s empowering, not debasing.”

  I didn’t even want to begin to touch on the memories that surfaced. Those dark recollections brought on their own confusion and shame. I was speaking from experience, but Scott didn’t have to know that.

  “That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” he said, jerking me out of my fucked-up thoughts. “I still didn’t like reading those, but I can understand when you put it that way.”

  “You didn’t like them?” My heart sank.

  “I think you’re a talented writer. But no, I didn’t like those particular books. That’s not a fantasy in my world.”

  I swallowed down the lump in my throat. I had no idea what he’d seen, but I’d known he was troubled by his experiences. A different shame made my insides burn. He must think I was really depraved to romanticize things that haunted him.

  The waitress arrived with our food, which was arranged on a pretty three-tiered tray. I couldn’t muster up the interest to admire the display. Instead, I grabbed my glass of prosecco and took a long gulp.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Scott said when she’d left.

  “You didn’t,” I replied, my voice tight. “It’s just… I never should have told you my pen name. I should have known you wouldn’t want to read those. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I wanted to understand you better. I do understand a little, now that you’ve explained some. And I really did like your other books. The ones that weren’t dark.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, unable to look at him. This felt just like being with Thomas: a compliment sandwich with a gut punch in the middle.

  “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”