Page 44 of Saviour
“Dax?” Emerson questions when I continue to laugh.
I follow Rori into the bedroom and watch her throw her stuff around, trying to find some clothes to wear.
“Sorry, mate, I was just showing my girl you’re a guy. She was getting a little jealous.”
She throws a shoe at me, then continues to gather her stuff up in her arms.
“You got a girl?” he questions and Rori freezes, looking over at me, arms full of scrunched up clothes.
“Yeah, man, I got a girl. I’ve gotthegirl.”
I hang up the phone and watch Rori pause, but instead of running to me like I thought she would, she throws her shit on the floor and flees the room, running out the door faster than ever before. Running, just like always.
And I fucking smile. Because if the girl’s gonna run, I’m gonna fucking chase. Every goddamn time.
Irun out the door, Dax hot on my heels, a manic laugh following me with every step I take. It makes me smile, hearing him so carefree, but I can’t stop replaying what he’d said to whoever this Emerson is.
I’m his girl?
We haven’t put a label on whateverthisis, and sure, I got jealous thinking he was talking to another girl, but I thought I was just being clingy, not protective. But his girl?Thegirl? I’m here on orders from his fucking uncle to distract him from finding his family and he’s calling me hisgirl?
My stomach feels uneasy when I think about how I’m lying to him when he’s done nothing but be nice to me. It’s why I ran. It’s why I’m running now. It’s easier to hide than to confront what’s in front of you.
But then I hear his laugh closer behind me and I can’t help the grin and the butterflies that replace the guilt.
I escape into the kitchen, flying past Maria with a quick wave, hearing Dax apologise for almost knocking her off her feet, and I laugh out loud, dodging the kitchen island and standing on the other side, my chest heaving.
Dax stops on the other side, hands splayed out wide on the marble countertop, that smile still lighting up his face.
“Where are you gonna run to now, Birdie?”
I pant, trying to catch my breath, and look at my options, which are slim. I can only go left or right and I know damn well Dax is quicker than me.
I take a slow step to the left and like I predicted, Dax does too. Taking another small step, Dax mirrors me, his steps wider.
“Don’t even think about it, Birdie,” he rasps and I dart my eyes to the right, leap in that direction, but at the last second, turn and run to the left, but like always, Dax is one step ahead, and didn’t even flinch when I pretended to dodge to the right.
He reaches out an arm and grabs hold of my plait that swung around my shoulder as I tried to run, pulling it towards him. I gasp loudly, firstly at the shock, then at the small sting at the base of my neck. My ass hits the side, my head pulls back awkwardly across the counter, and Dax wraps his hand around my plait once more, drawing me closer to him.
My back lowers and I’m almost lying down on the marble, bent awkwardly, my chest heaving with huge breaths. My mind floats away briefly to memories of Maxwell pulling my hair, which ultimately led me to wearing my hair in plaits in the first place, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe slowly.
Dax’s hold loosens on my hair and I feel his hands wrap over my shoulders and under my arms, lifting me off the ground. I push my feet against the cupboards to help him and he drags me across the unit until I’m lying flat on my back and he’s hovering right over me, upside down.
I keep my eyes on his, flicking between the concern, worry, and arousal I can read on his face. He curls his hand back in my plait, playing softly with the strands of hair and once I’m finally breathing normally, I lick my lips.
“My foster dad,” I start and Dax’s eyes widen a little and I pause, wondering what I should tell him. I haven’t opened up to him about anything, but I know I need to stop running.
But he called me his girl. What if this changes how he feels about me?
“My foster dad,” I repeat, starting again. “He used to come into my room. The first time he ever touched me was brief. I was twelve.” I take a deep breath in and Dax’s hand continues to gently play with my hair, his other hand resting on my cheek.
“When he realised I didn’t have a lot of fight in me, he kept coming back. But I’d still try to run. Every time. And the first thing he grabbed onto was my hair. So eventually, I learnt to plait it on my shoulder and I’d keep it close. Hold on to it when I ran so he couldn’t pull it anymore.”
I want to throw up at the confession, at saying it all out loud for the first time ever.
“It didn’t stop him. But he never grabbed my hair again.” I finish and close my eyes, hating the sympathy swimming in his golden browns.
Dax’s other hand joins my face and his thumbs rub gentle circles on my cheeks.
