Turner doesn’t make a sound when the whip cuts across his skin, tearing into it and then ripping free.
Not the first lash.
Not the second.
When the third lands. Everything changes, flips.
Everything that was nothing becomes pure light and the circle of light holding my tortured soul—because that’s all such a scene could be—is nothing. Gone.
The scream that rips out of Turner’s chest is something born of a primordial pain, one which should never be experienced or inflicted. It rattles the world around me and the foundation of everything that could be.
Angel.
Angel.
I can hear the whip moving through the air. I brace for the scream, for the way it squeezes my heart and won’t let go.
Instead, the hooked end, with teeth covered in blood, sings straight for me. The air shifts around me and I beg my body to move.
But I don’t.
“Angel,” Turner barks in my face.
My eyes snap open and he’s right there. Right fucking there.
I fling myself at him, not entirely sure which way is up but knowing he’ll catch me, hold me, and chase away the last of my nightmare.
Tears are streaming down my face, and Turner clutches me to his chest. He rolls us slightly, moving until he’s sitting up against the headboard and I’m cradled in his lap. It feels like I can’t breathe with all the air being stolen by the echo of his scream.
“I’ve got you, Angel,” he murmurs.
My eyes slide closed with his nickname for me. “You were trying to wake me up,” I whisper the words, broken as they are, and don’t pose it as a question.
Because it’s not. He had almost gotten through so many times.
Then he did.
“I’m sorry it took me a moment to get through,” his voice is a deep rumble, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck.
“No sorry,” I mumble, my words slurring slightly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I peek up at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious or if he’s just asking because he feels like he’s supposed to. He’s looking down at me, open and focused. It gives me just enough strength.
“He was hurting you,” I murmur, “and I couldn’t get to you.”
“Oh Graycie-girl.” He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering for a beat too long. But it’s what I need.
There’s something about being in his arms that chases away all the bad. Maybe it’s because he really is the other half of me? Is that possible?
“He’ll never lay a hand on me,” he sounds so sure and I find myself nodding as if he can guarantee something like that. “If he ever has me,” his eyes go hard, “you run.”
My lips part as I stare at him, words failing me completely. Where do I even start?
How could he ask me to do that?
And leave him?