Trust Me (Rough Love #3) by Annabel Joseph Page A

me.”
    “Why?”
    I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. “My poor little rich boy problems. Daddy never loved me. Mommy was always drunk. The nannies hated me for being a spoiled, self-centered brat. But I had all this.” I waved my arm around the echoing, marble-floored chambers. My parents used to sit in one and shut me off in the other, with my nanny. The Turkish carpets were as bright as the sofas would be under their canvas covers, but when I was a child, everything seemed sad and colorless. I’d had no love and no power.
    I didn’t say any of this to her. I didn’t know how to explain it, that early rejection that made me fear all rejection. If I didn’t want love, then it wouldn’t matter if I never got love. A captive in my dungeon was good enough. I used to dream of taking women captive. I dreamed of women who’d never want to leave.
    I startled when she touched me. She put her arms around me and laid her head against my shoulder. “Really? Your mother was always drunk?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mine was too.”
    I wove my fingers through her dark, glossy curls. “I can’t say I had a bad childhood, not compared to yours.”
    “But you did. It’s okay. You can be less than perfect around me. You can feel sad about things you didn’t have.”
    “I had nothing before you.”
    My teeth clenched against more words, like I was giving a confession under torture. She blinked at me, her pretty face a mixture of confused emotions. Why had I brought her here? Why was I saying all this? Why couldn’t I be normal and romantic, and just tell her how much I loved her? I started composing a poem in my mind. You stood with me in the bleak, black house. Don’t let the light fool you.
    Don’t leave me. What if you leave?
    “Is it still raining?” I moved away from her to look out the window. “Should we go back out?”
    “Do you want to go back out?”
    I could hear my heart beating in my ears. She stood very still with her hands clasped in front of her.
    “Why don’t you show me where you used to sleep?” she said. “Do you still have a room here?”
    I shook my head, grimacing. “It’s a guest room now. But you can see it if you like.”
    I showed her around the rest of the place, which was exactly what needed to happen so I could regain control of my shit. Not much had been done since I was here last. The place was protected as an estate of historical interest. They couldn’t gut it and remodel. Even something as trivial as new faucet handles had to be approved. I explained all this to Chere as she stared up at the ceilings and walls. When we got to the guest room—my old room—she walked over to the window.
    “I want to see your view. Did you look out here and daydream as a boy? Does everything look the same as it used to?”
    I joined her, standing close to her and breathing in her scent. I put my arms around her and looked out the window where I had indeed daydreamed as a tormented boy. Back then, I would have done anything for attention and approval. Once, in a really dark hour, I’d sat on the sill and considered jumping to make my parents sorry. I imagined them mourning over my twisted, broken body, but I hadn’t jumped, because I was too afraid of the pain.
    “I was a horrible kid,” I murmured against her ear. “I grew into a horrible adult.”
    “You’re not horrible,” she said, laughing softly. “Just a little rough around the edges.” She turned to me and took my face between her hands. “You’re wonderful. I love you.”
    And as I looked into her eyes, I realized everything I’d gone through was okay, because it had brought me here, to this moment, to her. I didn’t trust my voice, or I would have told her how desperately I loved her. Instead I kissed her, turning away from my boyhood view. The kiss deepened to a grasping embrace and then an attack. I love you, I love you, I love you.
    Don’t leave me.
    “Come here,” I said. “Come with me.”
    I led her out to