BE A FUCKING MAN, SAXON. I NAMED YOU AFTER WARRIORS, AND WHAT DO I GET? A WEAK LITTLE BITCH._
Hands gently, hesitantly touch my back, and it takes every last fiber of my being to not lash out.
"Don't touch me," I snap, snarling. "I'm not safe to be near right now."
Her hands skate up to my shoulders. "You don't scare me. Even if you did hurt me, there's nothing you can do that someone else hasn't done, and worse. So, I’m not afraid of that. But you won't."
She presses herself up against my back. Wraps her arms around me from behind. Rests her cheek on my shoulder blade.
It hurts—her affection physically hurts. I'm so tensed, still waiting for the blows—verbal and physical—that I haven't heard or felt in reality for almost fifteen years, but which I still expect, when I have these attacks.
Not even my brothers know about them.
My eyes burn.
No, no, no. Fuck. Fuck, no. Not now. Fuck.
It's like trying to hold back from the edge of climax when she's doing all she can to push me over that edge. Instead of climax, though, I'm about to fucking cry like a little goddamn weak-ass baby. I can't stop it. I fight it with everything I have inside me, but it's not enough.
The damn bursts, and it's her gentility, her understanding, her affection that breaks it.
The Truth About Strength
Terra
I feel it in his belly: a tensing, a rippling. His whole body is tense, every muscle forged out of titanium. He's not breathing.
I recognize a panic attack when I see one, and even though he told me gets them, it's still outright shocking to see it in him. He seems so…powerful. Unbreakable. Untouchable.
But this…
It breaks my heart. Not because I see his panic attack as weakness, but because I know he does.
I slide around in front of him, keeping my body in contact with his at all times. Crush my body against his, breasts flattened against the wall of his chest, resting my hands on his shoulders.
His eyes are clenched shut, his head tipped back. He has a pistol in each hand, fingers along the trigger guards.
I touch his knuckles. Grasp the cold barrel of one gun. "Let me have it, Saxon."
He unclenches his hand, and I take the weapon and stuff it in his waistband at his back.
His hand trembles.
Repeat the process.
Now, both hands are held in front of him, empty, shaking.
