“Yes, I do. Truly.” I can’t help but gaze up at him, soaking up the strength in his frame, his hold, his eyes. Can’t help but feel like here in his arms is the safest place I could ever be. “I do believe you, Silas. I swear I do.”
“Good. Cause it’s God’s own truth, honey.” He squeezes my nape once, gently. “Now let’s find you some shoes and get the fuck outta here.”
He relinquishes his hold on me to push the cart, but I don’t go far, walking as close beside him as I can. We find the shoes and I take a few moments to peruse the selection; the shoes that catch my attention are a pair of low, white, laceless mesh slip-ons. After a few wrong sizes, I find a pair that fit and stand up, sighing in relief. The insoles are soft and cushiony, pillowing and supporting my feet.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathe. “They’re so comfortable!” I laugh out loud as I take a few steps back and forth. “I’ve never worn anything so comfortable before.”
Silas just watches me, a strange, intense look on his face. “You want socks, or you like ‘em barefoot?”
“Oh, they’re perfect just like this.” I smile at him, giddy. “I don’t want to take them off.”
“Good. Leave ‘em on, babe.”
“Don’t we have to pay for them first?”
He shrugs. “They’ll just scan the box. It’s cool.”
I curl my toes and sigh. “I didn’t know shoes could feel this way.”
“I don’t want to know what that fucking monster made you wear.”
“Mostly he kept me barefoot. I only got shoes if we were going out to the store. I usually wore a pair of Mama’s, but they were too small and hurt my feet.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ monsters. They literally kept you barefoot in the kitchen. Jesus.”
“It’s all right now, Silas.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not alright. That fuckin’ shitstain doesn’t deserve to live. The more you tell me about him, the angrier I get.”
I touch his chest. “Don’t be angry on my account, Silas. I’m not worth it.”
His eyes fix on mine, and they’re filled with an anger that’s terrifying to behold. “Naomi Ibsen, I don’teverwant to hear you say that bullshit again. Youareworth it.” He cups my face in both of his hands, gentle yet firm, and I can feel the anger radiating off of him in palpable waves. “You’re worth fuckingeverything.”
“How can you think that?” I ask, my voice a shaky breath. “You barely know me.”
I’m scared of him. Of his anger. Yet, I’m still safe. This I know. He won’t hurt me. He’s not angry at me, not really. I can feel the difference.
“I know you. I know enough. If you can come out of the hell you’ve endured your whole godforsaken fucking life and still be as sweet as you are? Shit, there’s not another person like you. Not anywhere. That’s all I need to know.”
“Silas,” I breathe, but nothing else comes out.
He brushes a thumb over my lips, and my lungs clutch, the air in them igniting along with my blood and my bones and my skin. “‘I’m worth it,’” he growls. “Say it.”
“I…I’m worth it.”
“Again.”
“I’m worth it.” It’s hard to believe it.
My brain recoils from the truth of it—my soul longs to believe it but struggles to.
He lets out a soft breath, and his lips touch my forehead. “Anything else you think you need or want?” He pulls back to look at me. “There is. I can see it on your face. What is it, babe?”
I shake my head. “You’re already giving me too much.” He just stares at me, one eyebrow arched, waiting until I sigh. “A purse? I’ve always wanted a purse like Mama used to carry. I….I don’t have anything to put in it, but…”
He scans the store around us until he spies what he’s looking for—the purses. “Come on, this way.”
He watches me go from table to table, rack to rack, examining different purses. Big ones, small ones, and everything in between. There’s a smile on his face.
