He’d kept his distance, made me feel isolated. I was starting to feel, to think, this had more to do with his emotions than the fact that he didn’t want me.

I found myself moving through the house, running my fingers along the smooth wood, taking in the desolate, dark pictures. The man I cared about, had fallen for during my short time here, was more of an enigma than anything else.

He’d been beaten as a child, given away as if he were nothing. He’d fought to survive…literally, and here he was now, standing tall, above everyone else. Although my life, childhood, hadn’t been this bottomless pit like he’d experienced, I did know the darkness he felt, even if it wasn’t nearly to the extent he did.

I found myself in front of the bird painting, staring at the mouth, the bleak eyes. I felt for Cameron, wanted to be the one who comforted him, shared in his pain. But a man like him, one who had been through so much, hid what he needed. He wasn’t normal in the sense that he needed, or wanted, comfort.

The way he got rid of that darkness, that hardness and hatred, was through rough contact and violence. He’d always be like that, and I accepted it. I accepted him.

I found myself moving away from the picture and back to the room. I’d be leaving tomorrow, saying good-bye to all of this, to Cameron. God, that hurt, made my chest ache. I rubbed it, right over my heart.

When I pushed the bedroom door open, I froze, seeing Cameron over by the window. His big body kept the curtain to the side as he stared out. There was a glass in his hand, presumably alcohol in it.

“Come in and shut the door,” he said, his voice soft, low.

I did as he said, but as soon as the door was shut, I felt like I was trapped, no way to escape, no real reason I would want to.

“Come here.”

I moved closer, feeling the air getting sucked out of my lungs, feeling the room grow hotter, everything becoming tighter. He stayed by the window, his focus on whatever was outside. It was dark, but there were lights on, golden illumination covering the manicured ground.

“I told you about my life.” He turned. “In a way, I suppose.” He took a small drink from his glass. “Beaten as a child, sold off to earn money for people who thought of us as nothing more than a commodity, a paycheck.” He finished off the drink and set the now empty glass on the windowsill. “And no amount of tattoos can cover up the lasting impression they had on me, or what I went through.” He advanced, one step, making me feel smaller, weaker. “And after a while I thrived on the pain, on getting it and hitting back.” He grinned, and it was fucking frightening. “That’s the type of man you allow in your bed, between your thighs.” He was an inch from me now, the scent of alcohol making me drunk. “That’s the man that you’ve grown to care about.” He said that last part so low, so deep, I felt it to my marrow. “And you do care for me,” he said as if he knew that with certainty.

“The man I’ve grown to care about…” I was saying it more to myself than asking it as a question, but the truth was between us. He knew it. I knew it. And there was no point in lying.

“Have you not grown to care for me?” He reached out, grabbed a lock of my hair, and rubbed it between his fingers.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t right now anyway.

He kept rubbing my hair. “Like a distant memory,” he whispered, almost to himself. But as soon as he let that piece of hair go, this hard mask covered his face. “I’ve come to realize the weakness you are to me is far too dangerous.” He looked into my eyes, this piercing, soul-catching expression. “It’s not what I want or need.”

He turned, but I grabbed his hand, a bold gesture. He looked over his shoulder, down at my hand, his focus severe. “Don’t you fucking see?” he said, his voice low, dangerous…deadly. “You are here for my pleasure, nothing more.” He gave this humorous, scary laugh. “What did you think would happen, little girl?”

I didn’t speak, not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know what to say, how to respond. I didn’t know how to be honest with him. I wasn’t going to let his words affect me, wasn’t going to let him try and push me away. At least not before I told him I cared for him, wanted him.

“I do care about you.” And then, right in front of me, I saw that wall shifting, breaking down, being exposed to me.

He turned fully around to face me, that wall still breaking down. And then, before I knew what was going on, he pulled me in close. His anger was right there at the surface, and the internal war he fought was clear. He held my body to his, the stiffness of his erection pressing into my belly.

Would tonight be rough? Would he take me for the last time in the totally demented way he’d always told me about, threatened he could do to me? Sure, he’d been on the rougher side when he’d taken me, but he’d held me afterward and stroked my skin when he thought I was sleeping.

The feeling of his hand on my head, stroking my hair, gentle, caressing sweeps down the length, had me wishing for more time. I wished things could be different. I wished this could be permanent.

He took me to bed then, laying me down softly, being so gentle it almost brought tears to my eyes. This was not a side I’d ever seen in Cameron before.

He took my clothes off, his hands soft, sweet even. The kisses, licks, and nibbles made me think of this as a good-bye, that one moment where he was mine and I was his. Once we were naked, his body on top of mine, his hard cock nestled right between my thighs, I was the one who reached down. I was the one who grabbed his dick, placed the tip at my entrance, and urged him to penetrate me.

I wanted to feel him deep in my body, stretching me in the way he always did. This was our last time, and although I hated it, wanted to demand he accept what was going on, admit he had feelings for me, I kept my mouth shut.

And then he did push into me, rocked back and forth, kept his hand on my throat, and took control. He was gentle, not rushing it, and a part of me knew he wanted it to last. A part of me knew he wanted me to stay, even if he didn’t say the words, even if he wouldn’t.

I let him fill me up, claim me, make me understand I was the only woman, the one who held his attention. It didn’t matter what tomorrow held. In this moment I didn’t care about anything but being with him.

And when we both found that completion, and he filled me up in the most basic of senses, he pulled out and lay beside me. He held me, pushed my hair from my face, and stared into my eyes. The tattoos, his scars, the life he’d led and the one he continued to lead, didn’t mean anything in that moment. It was just a man and a woman.

It was just us.

I pulled back and looked at him. This mask was on his face once more, that darkness that recognized me so well, that related to me like the other half of my soul.

“Maybe I don’t have to leave.” I didn’t know if he’d answer, didn’t know if he’d react. He was silent, still—his hand still on my body, his focus still on me. And then his jaw hardened, his eyes went flat, and I knew, just knew, come morning, he wouldn’t be in the bed with me. Whatever internal battle he was dealing with was not something I would be allowed to witness.

I don’t know if that broke my heart or reminded me that this was exactly who I’d fallen in love with.

I slowly opened my eyes, the sun coming through the partially opened blinds washing over me, an invisible blanket of heat, comfort. I was alone in bed. I knew that without even turning and looking at Cameron’s side. This longing took place right in the center of my chest, this pressure, this emptiness.

I would go home today, or whatever my shitty apartment could be called.

A part of me hoped Cameron would force me to stay, make me his prisoner…only his. I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt this way, clutching at this feeling of being alive, of not being alone anymore. He was hard in all ways, indifferent, cold. But when he looked at me, I saw something shift. I felt it in him, this wave crashing to the surface, brutal, violent almost, but also so beautiful.

I didn’t want to move, just wanted to let the situation filter over me, consume me, take me under until I was one with it. But the sound of the door opening had me glancing over, hoping, wishing it was Cameron. I wanted him to tell me I was his, only his, that he wouldn’t let me go. I wanted to be his prisoner. I wanted to be the woman he turned to in order to find that pleasure.

I wanted to be his outlet, because in the end that’s who and what he was to me. I knew things wouldn’t be the same without him in my life, giving me that beautiful torment, that painful pleasure.

But it was the maid, her focus on the ground, her hair in a severe bun. She set a tray on the end of the bed, not speaking to me, and turned to leave. The door had only been shut for a moment or two before there was another knock. I pushed myself up on the bed and brought the sheet to my chin. I was naked, my body pleasantly sore, my inner thighs sticky from Cameron’s release just last night. There was another knock, and then I finally called out for them to enter.

Damien pushed the door open, his focus trained on my face before he glanced down at the ground. “Cameron has business to attend to, but he instructed me to inform you that after breakfast, and once you’re dressed, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

God, my throat was so dry, and this anxiety started to consume me, pulling me further under, making me feel uncomfortable. “I won’t see him before I leave?”

I hated that I felt so small, so vulnerable right now. I loathed the fact that Cameron made me feel like this and was either too afraid or too much of a bastard to face me himself. I knew I wasn’t hiding my emotions well, knew I was glaring. But Damien, being the stone statue he was, said nothing.

“I’ll be downstairs waiting when you’re ready.” He looked at me, and if he was the type of man to show any emotion, I might have thought he felt sorry for me. Yeah, I felt sorry for me too. I’d let my emotions get the best of me, allowed them to hold on tight and not let go.

And then he left me alone, and I sat there staring at the tray of food. I would not let this control me. I couldn’t, because if I did, there would be no one there to help me out of the hole when it was all said and done.

I sat alone in the back of the car, the scent of leather filling my head, but there was also the slight aroma of the cologne Cameron wore. I hadn’t seen him when I left the room and met Damien downstairs, but then again, I hadn’t expected to. He was a coward, if a killer could be one. He’d fucked me last night, even held me as I fell asleep, but come morning he’d been gone. He hadn’t even given me the decency or respect to say good-bye.

We entered the city and I stared out the window, watching the buildings pass by, seeing the people oblivious to anything that wasn’t right in front of them. I assumed Damien was taking me back to the apartment building, but I didn’t want to go there.

“Stop,” I said loudly enough I was sure Damien heard. “Pull in here.” He didn’t question me, just pulled into the driveway and found a parking spot. For a second I stared at the run-down motel, watching the few people loiter on the top balcony, their cigarettes hanging from their mouths, their hair and clothes greasy. I was sure drug deals, even some prostitution went on here. Before I could get out, Damien was climbing out of the car and opening the back door for me.

I was thankful he kept his mouth shut, didn’t hassle me on the shithole place I wanted to be dropped off at. But the little I had was at the apartment, a place I didn’t want to go back to, but would probably end up having to in order to at least survive until the next day.

“This is for you.” Damien handed me a small black bag. “Inside you’ll find a few changes of clothes from your stay at the house, some money to allow you to leave the city, and this.” He gave me a small slip of paper. A number was written on it, and I wondered if it was Cameron’s or Damien’s. I didn’t ask.

“You’re free, safe, and have enough money in that bag to start a life someplace else, someplace less shitty.” I stared at the number, listening to Damien’s voice, thinking about Cameron.

“He didn’t want to say good-bye to me,” I found myself saying, not sure if I was asking myself or Damien.

“He had business to attend to.”

I glanced up at Damien then. I knew I was just a payment, a debt owed because Cameron had helped me, solved my problem. It was what it was, although I hated the fact I couldn’t see him. I fucking hated the fact I found myself falling for my dark protector, the man willing to kill to make sure I was okay.

“If you’re in trouble, you call that number and someone will be there.”

Instead of saying something, making a fool out of myself, I just nodded.

I took a step back, watched Damien get into the car, and as he drove away I couldn’t help but take in a stuttering breath. I realized in that moment that before Cameron I’d just been surviving. With him I’d been living. But he’d made his point clear, stayed away, took from me what he wanted, and because of my need to survive, to be a fighter, I turned away from the disappearing car, faced the motel, and tried to think about the future.

I wouldn’t lie…it looked pretty damn dark.