Forsaking Gray (The Colloway Brothers Book 1) (23 page)

“I love you, Gray,” she mumbles against my neck. Every time she utters those words, my heart skips a beat.

I fuck her just as promised.

Hard.

Rough.

Raw.

“Get there, angel. I want to come together.” I reach between us and feather her clit, which hurtles her immediately into space. Fusing my mouth to hers, I swallow her cries of ecstasy just seconds before I follow, coating her with my seed. Hot jets of semen bath her insides, and my breath catches at the thought of creating a life with her. We’ve not once even discussed birth control, so I have to imagine she’s on something to prevent pregnancy, but I wish she wasn’t. I want to see her belly swell with our child.

Holding her eyes, I confess, “You’re my everything, Livvy.” And before I can hear her response, I once again capture her mouth with mine.

Minutes later, snuggled in bed, with my future at my side, I feel more content than I ever have. I hold Livvy close until I hear her breaths even out and know she’s sleeping. As I let my consciousness fade, I begin to plot my next move. Very soon, I will have a ring on her finger and share her bed every single night.

And I will have her for the rest of my life.

Chapter 29

It’s been over a week since I’ve seen Peter, and that means it’s been over a week since I’ve seen Grant. Where Peter goes, Grant goes, so while a part of me gets excited to see my only friend here, at the same time I don’t because I know Peter won’t be far behind and then I’ll most likely be spending the next few days recovering from my fresh physical and emotional injuries. But that’s okay. I relish the time between visits from Peter, even if they are spent in bed, healing.

After two and a half years here, while I’m not allowed outside without either Peter or Grant, I at least have the run of the house, even though I’m watched at all times.

I look down; testing the sprained ring finger I got during our last “visit.” The swelling is almost gone, the bruising faded to a deep yellow. My previously black eye has faded to a nice greenish-yellow as well.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, eating a turkey sandwich for dinner, admiring the beautiful sunshiny summer day from inside my opulent prison when I see Grant walk in.

“Hi,” he greets tentatively, a sad smile on his lips. He, too, knows what being back here means for me.

“Hi,” I choke. Suddenly no longer hungry, I barely swallow what’s in my mouth and push the rest of my sandwich away. “Where is he?” I don’t really want to know the answer, but not knowing is even worse.

“He’s a bit behind me. Got held up.”

I relax marginally as he holds out a hand. “Let’s go for a walk outside.”

My gaze nervously flicks back to the entrance. He knows as well as I do that there are cameras all over inside and outside this house, tracking every person’s movement at all times.

“It’s fine, Livia.”

“Okay,” I answer shakily. I take his hand, the electricity running up my arm as it always does when he touches me, and let him lead me outside after punching in a series of super secret security codes. Ones that change daily. Trust me, I learned that very early on. That day didn’t end well for me.

Once I hit the balcony, I look to the clear blue sky and take a deep breath, drinking in the smell of heat and flowers and freedom and wish, like every other time I’m outside that I could just take off and run and never look back, but this place is a fortress in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t get far. Also been there, done that. I wasn’t allowed back outside for almost six months.

We walk down the stairs, side-by-side and onto the path that leads through the lush gardens Peter favors. Even though we’re outdoors, neither of us is foolish enough to think that we can speak freely, so our voices are quiet.

“Livia…you know I’d do anything for you, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m working on something, but it may take some time.”

My gaze snaps to his and for the first time since I landed in this god-forsaken place, I have a small sliver of hope that I may actually get out of here because while he didn’t say those exact words, I know what he means. Grant would never get my hopes up artificially. “Can’t you just…you know?”

He doesn’t look at me, but even from the side I can see pain and anger swirling his eyes. His jaw ticks furiously. He knows exactly what I’m asking because I’ve asked many times before but the answer is always the same. “It’s more complicated than that, Livia.”

I’m quiet for several minutes, angry that a man that carries a gun on his person at all times won’t just pull the damn trigger against the one who holds both of our lives in his hands. “How much time, then?”

“I don’t know, but I need you to be strong. No matter what.”

I swallow hard and nod. Could it be a day, a month, another fucking year? I don’t know, but I know Grant is my only way out of this hell alive. I just hope it’s not too late. “No matter what.”

He doesn’t dare hold my hand, but in a show of unity, he briefly brushes his arm against mine. Tears want to well, but I don’t let them. I can’t or I’ll never stop.

We stay outside for another half hour until Grant says he needs to get some things done for Peter. And hours later, as expected, my worst nightmare returns.

“I own you, you little cunt!” He slaps me across the face and pain explodes in my cheek. “When I tell you to be in my bedroom, waiting for me at eleven sharp, I mean you are to be waiting, with your legs spread, like the whore you are, at exactly eleven sharp.”

It was ten fifty-nine, but who was counting? The rules changed every day. Sometimes he’d summon me and then I’d wait all night. He’d never show. It was another Peter mind-fuck special. He constantly tried to invent ways to torture me. To break me. And after I lost my baby, he succeeded. For a while, anyway. Grant put me back together. He made me strong. Gave me hope this wouldn’t be my life forever, and after today, that hope has been renewed.

I mumble my apology and after a few more blows, I sink into my safe place, forgetting about the torture I’m about to endure. I’d rather take a beating every single day than take anything of his inside of me. Luckily for me, Peter’s impotency once again comes out to play, taunting the master of persecution himself. It always makes him more violent but saves me another tear in my already shredded soul. I smile inwardly. I think Peter’s “condition” is fitting, and makes me a firm believer in what goes around comes back around.

In the background, I hear an insistent, loud knock on the door, which pulls Peter from his rage and his fists from my battered body. Distantly I register Grant’s voice and then Peter is gone and Grant is at my side once again.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you in time.” He picks my prone form from the carpet and carries me from a monster’s room to my own.

“It’s not too bad this time,” I reply through a swollen lip and nearly closed right eye.

“Fuck, I wish I could get you out of here,” he growls under his breath. Barely controlled rage shakes every muscle in his body.

“Soon,” I reply quietly, sinking into the safety of his arms. It’s the only place I am safe.

“Not soon enough.”

I bolt up in bed, confused and trembling. Gray mumbles and shifts beside me, still in a deep sleep. I choke back the sob that wants to break free.

I’m free. I’m free. I’m free
.

I keep repeating that to myself until my heart rate calms and my breathing slows. Until I believe it.

Needing a moment to myself, I head quietly to the bathroom and sink down to the cold tile floor, crying softly into my hands. I am so broken inside; can I ever truly be free? Can I ever truly be happy? Can I really put that nightmare completely behind me and move forward?

Jesus, I
want
to with everything in me, and never more so since I laid eyes on Gray at that fundraiser. In those moments when I’m with him, I feel like it’s possible. In fact, I think I might even be able to, but with each day that passes, this secret between us grows heavier and weighs more than I think I can carry on my own.

How long until he starts questioning me again, especially with my frequent nightmares? I’m lucky that he’s a deep sleeper, because this is the third one I’ve had this week. The nightmares that I’d managed to keep mostly at bay have been coming more often since I’ve reconnected with Gray. The guilt I feel deep inside by keeping this secret is eating me alive, tearing me up and I’m being punished by having to relive every horrible, torturous moment.

Pulling myself together, I splash cold water on my face and quietly pad back to bed, slipping in silently. I turn away from him, not wanting to disturb his slumber when I feel his fingernails lightly run up and down my back, and my tears quietly start anew, rolling into my pillow.

Gray always used to scratch my back to help me sleep, and the simple gesture brings me peace, the likes of which I haven’t felt in years. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve felt his phantom fingers comfort me during those interminable days. It’s the simple things, like this, that I used to miss the most.

After a few minutes, he slides next to me and pulls me close and into his warmth, wrapping a possessive arm around my waist.

“Bad dream?”

I nod, unable to choke out a single syllable through the knot in my throat. I feel so loved, yet so tortured at the same time. It’s exhausting keeping up this façade, keeping this cancerous story hidden from the man I love.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? You can trust me,” he whispers quietly, but it sounds like a shout in the darkness of night that covers us in evasion and avoidance.

What is it about the protective cover of nightfall that makes us believe we can shed our skin and purge our sins without repercussions? Why do we feel this false sense of security that anything we confess is forgivable when someone can’t see our face?

“Maybe someday,” I eventually reply, and this time I mean it. Could I be doing both of us a disservice by staying mute? The more I’m with him, the more I think maybe so.

“I love you, angel. You’re safe now.” I’m safe.
Then why don’t I feel like it?
Why do I have this bad feeling that everything I want is right within my grasp, but if I reach for it with both hands, they’ll slip through the hologram, a sick taunt of all I will never have.

He pulls me tighter and after several restless moments, I finally talk my brain into shutting down and let the dark take me again. As I drift off, this time I pray for clarity and direction and faith.

Faith in me.

Faith in Gray.

Faith in
us
.

Faith that whatever it is we’re building here is strong enough to endure the truth when it finally comes out because with every passing day I feel the noose tightening more around my fragile neck.

Chapter 30

This is the third time this week. She thinks I don’t know, but I do. I just don’t say anything. I don’t want to push her. Make her defensive. Give her an excuse to pull away from me, when I’m trying to pull her into me.

By the way she cries out and mumbles incoherently in her sleep, her dreams are bad. The only thing I can ever make out is “no” or “stop” and every time I hear those pained words, my gut clenches in agony. I want to take away her sorrow. I want to banish her demons. I want her to trust me with whatever she’s hiding because it’s clearly killing her slowly but surely.

I feel like we’re building a glass house on a shifting mound of sand, and each small settling of the treacherous grains causes microscopic fissures in our fragile structure, endangering the foundation. And the thing about cracks is…they spread. They weaken. They destroy. Until pretty soon the whole thing you’ve spent every ounce of energy building will implode on itself, and we’ll be left with nothing but shattered rubble and cuts so deep, the scars will never heal.