Never Let You Go (a modern fairytale) (18 page)

“I know I look broken, but—”

“Holden,” she said, blinking furiously because this was so damn hard and she was about to cry again. “Are you whole or broken?”

He blinked back at her, his jaw tightening as he clenched it, his nostrils flaring. He was trying not to cry just as hard as she was.

“I’m b-broken,” he finally whispered. “But I think I could be whole again.”

She didn’t bother swiping at the tear that rolled down her cheek. Nodding at him, she held out her trembling hand. “Let’s find out.”

Gris had prepared him a plate of fried apples and a bowl of cereal, insisting that he sit down at the kitchen table and let her gather a few things together for them. He told her where to find a duffel bag, and every time she poked her head back into the living room, she had a question about where to find something else. He had to hand it to her—she was thorough, packing up towels, sheets, and toilet paper, just in case. When he said as much, she paused, her pretty face quirking up in a grin.

“I think it’s the nanny in me,” she confessed, her cheeks rosy.

“You babying me?” he asked, taking another mouthful of fruit and thinking that fried apples had never, ever tasted so sweet.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, turning back into the hallway and rustling around in his bathroom cabinets. It occurred to him that she’d probably find the 48-pack of Trojans he’d picked up the last time he was at Walmart. And though he should kick himself for thinking it, he couldn’t help hoping that she’d slip a few in his bag, just in case.

He wasn’t totally sure what had changed between his confession that he’d stayed with Caleb and her willingness to join him at Quint’s cabin, but he wasn’t foolish enough to ask her. He was about to have her all to himself for a few weeks, and that’s all that mattered.

“I’m changing your bandages before we go,” she shouted from the back hall, and he chuckled softly to himself, popping the last apple in his mouth and starting on the cereal. Damn, but she was just as bossy as ever, and he loved it because it felt so familiar it almost made him want to weep. Instead he shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring the sounds of Griselda moving around in his space.

Twenty minutes later, the dishes were washed, his bandages were changed, his bag was packed, and he was locking the apartment door behind them. Griselda had his duffel bag thrown over her shoulder, and the two brown sacks, repacked with groceries and other supplies, filled her arms.

As she descended the stairs in front of him, he admired how strong and self-sufficient she was, putting away the groceries, making his breakfast, packing his bags, making his bed, and straightening up the apartment before tending to his wounds and repacking their supplies. She was cheerfully and effortlessly efficient without complaining or asking for thanks, which made her unlike every other woman he’d ever known.

He wondered if that part of her had been inadvertently nurtured during their years with Caleb, when their survival had depended on strength and hard work. From March to November, they’d work in the garden every day, from seven in the morning until five in the evening. From November to February, they’d work in the barn, canning the fruits and vegetables they’d carefully cultivated in the warmer months. Once or twice a week, Caleb would load a few boxes in the back of his truck, and when he returned drunk a few hours later, the boxes were empty and ready for more.

Holden couldn’t speak for Griselda, especially after all these years, but for him the work had been a blessing. For the most part, when they were silently working, Caleb left them in peace, and when Holden thought back on those days, if he could eliminate fear from the equation, he recalled a whole and quiet communion with Griselda, every hour, every minute, of every day. Their days blended together in a monotony of work, but at least they had each other, and for him, that not only made it bearable—in some ways, it had even made those days precious.

“You okay with the stairs?” she asked, glancing back at him.

His deep thoughts scattered, and he nodded. Though his hip, chest, and face still hurt a lot, it wasn’t as bad as yesterday, and the Advil he’d taken while she changed his bandages was beginning to take the edge off. As long as he moved slowly and carefully, it wasn’t unbearable.

“Where’s your car?” she asked, holding open the door at the bottom of the stairs.

Tilting his head to the left he said, “Around the corner. The piece-of-shit Ford pickup.”

As he came up behind her, she headed through the door and turned onto the sidewalk. But suddenly her efficient pace stilled, and she stopped abruptly at the mouth of the alley. One of the grocery bags in her arms started to slip, but she tightened her grip on it at the last minute. Her head whipped back to look at him, her eyes wide and panicked, and her lips parted in dismay.

He flinched, reading her face a second too late.

Fuck.

She’d been in that truck once before.

***

The second Griselda looked around the corner, she recognized the truck because of the faded bumper sticker on the back that read “Rosie’s Barn Bar.” It was Caleb Foster’s truck. The one he’d used to abduct them.

Unconsciously, for most of her life, she’d looked for that bumper sticker on the back of every red truck she’d ever driven behind, on every road, every highway, everywhere she’d ever traveled. And now here it was. Sitting in an alleyway parking lot in West Virginia, like it had been there all along.

“That’s his . . . his . . .”

“It’s n-not his anymore,” said Holden from behind her. “It’s mine.”

“You
kept
his truck? You
wanted
his . . .” Her words drifted off, and she searched his face, dizzy from breathing way too fast. With increasingly sweaty palms, the groceries started to slip again.

He pulled the bags from her arms, wincing from the effort, and set them down on the pavement, before placing his palms gently on her cheeks. His gray eyes were gentle and compassionate as they stared back at her.

“L-listen to me, Gris. It’s not his anymore. It’s mine. And I kept it because I was, uh, seventeen and I had nothing and he took good care of it. It got me from Oregon back here. And yes, maybe if I’m honest, I k-kept it because I had nothing left of you but memories . . . and one of those memories was you sitting next to me in this truck. So, yeah. I k-kept it. But it’s
not
his. It’s mine.”

She locked her eyes on his as he spoke, searching them for a lifeline, and her heart stopped racing as she found it in his words.

He’d kept it because of
her
.

He’d kept this truck because once upon a time, for twenty minutes, on the worst day of their lives, she’d sat in this truck holding a puppy on her lap after he’d begged her not to get in, then followed her anyway.

It was so heartbreaking her breath caught, and she let her cheek fall onto his shoulder, her face turned into his neck. His arms came around her, strong and solid, holding her against his chest, and she let herself relax against him, closing her eyes. He hadn’t been able to shower this morning, but he’d cleaned himself up in the bathroom after breakfast, and he smelled like fried apples, soap, and sweat. The heat of his throat warmed her lips, and without thinking, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his skin.

He gasped, holding his breath, motionless except for his fingers, which slowly curled into fists on the back of her T-shirt.

Molten, melting heat spread out from her belly, making deep and hidden muscles clench with longing as her nipples pebbled, straining against his chest. She felt him harden through his jeans, pushing insistently into her thigh. She drew back, then pressed her lips against his throbbing pulse once again.

A soft, strangled groan released from the depths of his throat, the vibration faint but thrilling against the sensitive skin of her lips. His breath finally released in a pant, falling hot against her ear and making shivers run down her back.

“Holden,” she whispered, her breathing quick and shallow.

“Gris,” he murmured, the low sound making her toes curl in her sandals.

“We should, um . . . we should . . .” Her lips were so close to his throat, they grazed his skin like butterfly kisses both times she said the word
we
.

“Huh,” he groaned softly, making no move to release her, though his fingers uncoiled, flattening against her lower back.

She swallowed, a fog of intense, aching desire making her warm and light-headed. On a purely physical level, her mind skated swiftly to what it would be like to
be
with Holden, and her heart thundered against his as she imagined her nakedness pressed against his, his lips kissing hers, his hands exploring the peaks and valleys of her body, the hardness between his thighs pumping into her.

He was far more experienced than she, but if the tenderness in his eyes was any indication, he’d be careful of her, anxious to please her. Her sex flooded hot and wet at the thought, dampening her panties as she closed her eyes to concentrate on the hard angles of his body pressed against hers, wondering what they would feel like without clothes between them.

Bothered and way beyond hot, her mind finally interceded, thrusting common sense on her consciousness like a bucket of ice water to the face.

The
last
thing she and Holden needed was to complicate this reunion with sex.

Besides
, taunted her cruel mind,
he has a girlfriend . . . and a shitload of tally marks.

She pulled away from him, straightening her head and opening her eyes. “I guess we should get going.”

He cleared his throat, his gray eyes almost black as they searched her face with brutal intensity, finally resting boldly on her lips. “Yeah.”

“Sorry about that,” she said, feeling her cheeks color, and wishing she didn’t like it so much that he couldn’t stop looking at her lips. “You kept the truck because of me, and that’s . . . I don’t know. It’s sad and it’s nice and it’s . . . confusing.”

“You’re confused?” he asked, still holding on to her tightly, adjusting his stance slightly so that his erection strained against her sex, not her thigh. “About what?”

Her eyelids fluttered a little, and she forced herself not to roll her hips into him. “I think . . . I mean, I think my feelings are a little, uh, all over the place. I’m glad to see you . . . I’m relieved you’re okay . . . I’m . . .”

“You’re what?” he asked, finally sliding his eyes from her lips to her eyes.

“I’m . . .,” she started breathily, then pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Stop doing that,” he growled softly, his eyes never leaving hers.

She released her lip.

“Breathe,” he said.

She took a deep breath.

He dropped his arms and took a step back, though he still drilled her eyes with his. “You’re right. We should get going.”

He turned away from her and walked to the driver’s side of the truck, opening the door, and stepping carefully inside.

***

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Damn
.

He flashed a look in the rearview mirror and saw her pick up the two grocery sacks and place them carefully in one of the two crates bungee-corded in the bed of the truck. She hefted the duffel into the other crate, then turned around, her back to the truck, her hands on her hips. She needed a moment. He understood completely.

Glancing at the tally marks on his arm, he knew that there was no mark inked into his skin—not one—that could come close to the moment he’d just shared with Griselda. And my God, they hadn’t even kissed. Her lips had barely touched his throat for more than a few seconds. If they ever . . . God, if they ever . . .

He grimaced, adjusting his pants and trying to relax. Looking in the rearview mirror again, he wondered if she was doing the same. He had felt her nipples, stiffened into points, pressed against his chest as she kissed his neck a second time. She’d been every bit as turned-on as he was.

Fuck.

He wanted her so badly—every inch of his body pulsed impatiently for her touch—and yet . . . and yet . . .

In some ways Holden had grown up too fast, but in others his growth had been stunted. He knew this about himself. He acknowledged it. For the most part, he had endured life, not lived it. He had a shitty factory job and a crappy apartment, and he slept with the light on half the time and woke up screaming the other half. His bank account was meager, and he had very few friends. He fought other men for sport because the rage in him was ceaseless. He used women for pleasure and was a rotten boyfriend to Gemma, because hell, he wasn’t sure he knew how to love someone anymore—how to put someone else’s interests before his.

But despite every bad thing he knew about himself, he also knew this: Griselda made him want to live again. Griselda made him want to be a better man.

There was so much rocky terrain between them, a new emotion every minute, a fragile trust that he couldn’t bear to risk. For the first time in his life, there was a woman inside the body, and her feelings—her heart—were more important than his dick getting attention. If he fucked this up with her, he might never get another chance. The stakes were too high.

Besides, he didn’t even know if he deserved her. And before she could belong to him, he needed to know he was worthy of her. Whoever was with Gris, himself included, needed to earn her first.

Reminding himself that he needed to give her the space and time to decide what she wanted had calmed him down a little by the time she finally opened the passenger door and swung her body into the cab of the truck.