“It’s okay,” I said softly as I turned my head to look up at Jalen. The hair on his chest scratched my cheek, but I couldn’t find it in me to mind. I was more content here than I’d ever been with another person.

“What’s okay?” he asked as he brushed some hair back from my forehead.

I rolled back a bit, exposing as much of the scar as possible. “Touch. Ask. Satisfy your curiosity.”

“I don’t need to know,” he said, “not if you don’t want to tell me.”

He meant it, and that assured me I could do it. That I needed to do it.

I picked up the hand on his stomach and placed it between my breasts. That was all the encouragement he needed. He traced the scar with his fingers, followed the rough edges down and around to my spine.

“Who hurt you?” The anger in the question meant as much to me as the question itself. Not what happened but who hurt you.

“I grew up in Carmel, Indiana,” I began, returning to my place against his side. I traced patterns on his skin as I told my story. “The court transcripts were sealed, so not many people outside of that town know what I’m going to tell you, and even there, not all the details got out.”

He ran his hand up and down my arm but didn’t interrupt.

“I was an only child with a normal childhood, up until I was twelve anyway. My dad had an accident at work, and it messed with his brain. He changed from my funny, hard-working father into someone who flew off the handle at the slightest thing. He was scary, but my mom and I, we still loved him.”

His stomach muscles tensed under my hand, as if he guessed how bad the next bit was going to be. I doubted his guesses had even gotten close to what I was about to tell him.

“About a year after it happened, I was in my room, putting away clothes, and they started yelling. They’d been yelling a lot since he’d gotten hurt. I didn’t realize anything was really wrong until something crashed.” I swallowed hard. I needed to talk about it the same way I had on the stand. “My mom screamed. I went downstairs, and there was blood everywhere. My mom was dead. No question or doubt. Before I could really even process it, my dad grabbed me, threw me up against the wall. He had this knife from our kitchen, and it was covered with blood.”

“Shit.” The word was more breath against my hair than sound.

I touched the spot where the knife had first gone in. “The tip got stuck in my sternum. He had to work it back and forth before he could get it to move again, which is how a shallow cut left that much of a scar.”

“Rona.” His voice cracked.

“I don’t have to tell you the path the knife took.” I gestured to the scar. “It wasn’t deep enough to hit anything too important, but it got all twisted, like you can see. Some of it was him. Some of it was me trying to get away. Which I didn’t. I ended up on the floor, and he must’ve thought I was dead. I passed out, but not for long. I still don’t know how I managed to get up and get to a phone. I called 911 and then heard the kids next door screaming.”

“Fuck, babe.” His arms tightened around me.

“He killed the housekeeper and the babysitter. She was a couple years older than me.” I pushed back the memory of finding Darcy with her throat cut. “Dad had the kids trapped in the bathroom. He was screaming, pounding on the door. I could see it breaking and tried to shove him away. He pushed me down, and I saw he’d dropped the knife. I stabbed his leg, and he kicked me in the head.”

I shivered, and Jalen pulled my blanket up around me.

“You don’t have to tell me anything else,” he said. “Get some sleep. I’m here.”

I nodded. That was pretty much all there was to tell anyway. What had come after was about what could be expected. Recovery. The trial. Moving away so I’d never have to hear about it.

Jalen was right. I’d rehashed enough of my past tonight. I was safe here. He’d keep the nightmares away.