“Hello, Lillian, it’s Persephone.” My voice cracked slightly.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, of course,” I hurried to answer. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You sound kind of nervous. Just wanted to make sure.”
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to ask you something.” I took a deep breath. “There is absolutely no pressure at all, and I will totally understand if you don’t feel comfortable…I know we don’t know each other that well. But, you see, I’d be so honored if you’d stand with me at the altar when I re-marry your brother.” The words came out in one long stream of consciousness. Normally I had the grace and poise strong and smooth enough to wrangle billionaires and their contributions, but speaking to Cannon’s sister? The most important person in his life? Not so much.
“Oh, wow,” she said. “Is that all? I’d love to.”
A breath rushed from my lungs. “Thank you. And, if it’s not too much trouble, we’d love Owen to be the ring bearer.”
“I’m sure we can handle that,” she said, but there was a hesitance in her tone that gave me pause.
“If you’re not comfortable with him in the wedding, it’s absolutely fine,” I said.
“That’s not it at all,” she said. “It’s just…”
I waited a few heartbeats, but she didn’t continue. “What is it, Lillian?”
“Well, you know I have to give you the sister speech now, right?”
My stomach tightened, but I nodded like she could see me. “Hit me with it,” I finally said.
“Don’t hurt my brother,” she said, her tone switching from friendly to fierce in the span of a breath. “All those tattoos aren’t armor. He may seem like the strongest, toughest asshole in the world, but he isn’t.” She sighed. “I’m not sure how much you know about our history, I’m assuming a great deal since you’re…well, whatever you are…but Cannon is a self-sacrificer to a fault. He took on the brunt of everything to protect me. And it’s my turn to protect him.”
I held my breath, my heart aching. I knew this about Cannon, but I didn’t know him like she did, and I wanted to so badly. I wanted him to let me in. To help shoulder some of his past burdens. Sure, he’d let me in physically—our time spent between, above, and beyond the sheets kept a permanent and pleasurable ache between my thighs. But emotionally? Just pieces. I wanted all of him.
“Be patient with him,” she continued. “He’s never truly dealt with some of the issues from our past, and to some, that makes him this closed-off jerk, but truly? He’s the most kind, compassionate person I know.”
“I see him,” I said, my voice clogged with emotion. “I’m trying, but he still keeps me at a distance in some things. I promise you, Lillian, I have no intention of hurting him. Ever. I want to be there for him in the way he’s been there for others.”
“Good,” she said, back to friendly. “It’s about time he let someone help him for a change. I just hope he doesn’t scare you off.”
“Not going to happen.”
“I like you, Sephie,” she said. “And I can’t wait to stand up there with you.”
“That means the world to me,” I said, and I heard the front door open and close. “I’ll send you all the details. I just heard your brother walk in, have to run!”
“Take care of him,” she said before hanging up.
And I silently vowed to her that I would do my best.
I left my phone on the desk, needing to disconnect for the night, and hurried down the hallway. I found Cannon in the kitchen, shirtless near the sink and holding a paper towel over his right pec. The center soaked in red.
“Cannon!” I hurried over to him, and my sudden presence made him flinch.
“Jesus,” he said. “You scared the hell out of me.” He eyed my bare feet. “It’s impossible to hear you without your heels on.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for his hand. “What happened?”
He backed away from my touch. “Got into a knife fight.”
I gaped at him, and he laughed.
“Cannon Price.”
He sighed. “Wasn’t watching where I was going. Ran into Logan’s skate in the locker room, which he had over his shoulder. Not a big deal,” he said, but he winced when he removed the paper towel.
I shook my head at the poor use of the towel. “Follow me. Now.” I didn’t bother looking behind me as I made my way to our room and into the bathroom. “Sit.” I snapped my fingers at the edge of his giant, marble encased tub, and bit back a smile when he obeyed.
I bent over, rummaging through the cabinets until I’d found the first aid kit.
“This isn’t necessary,” he grumbled. “It’s a scratch. I don’t need to be fawned over.”
“Like that would be so bad,” I said. “To have someone heal you for a change.”
I fingered through the products until I’d found the alcohol and gauze and bandages. I carried everything over to him, sitting it all down next to him on the marble. I reached for the paper towel he held over the wound, and he flinched away, again.
My heart ached, the earlier conversation with his sister coming back to the forefront of my mind. How many times had he had to clean up wounds on his own? And then hide them? Bury the source of the pain?
“Cannon,” I pled, sinking to my knees before him. “Please, let me help you.”
His eyes shuttered—at the sight of me or at the desperation in my tone, I didn’t know—but he dropped his hand, exposing the small cut over his pec. The blood welled once he dropped it, the red marring the beautiful whorls of black decorated there, but it was small. I dabbed a cotton ball with the alcohol and eyed him as I held it toward the cut.
“I’m fine,” he said.
I wiped the wound clean. He barely hissed. Then I took extra care in pressing a small square of gauze over the cut, using clear surgical tape to secure it. He’d rarely let me this close to his bare chest—not unless we were in the throes of passion—like that one time in the shower when he’d let me wash him, and he’d explained some of the scars—but since then, he’d always taken the reins on what I could and couldn’t touch. Which was absolutely his right, I just wanted him to trust me enough to help him.
My fingers traced the edges of the tape, double-checking the tightness, and then lower.
I felt him tense beneath my touch as I ran my fingertips over the patterns of ink, over his strong abdomen, and then I paused at some puckered flesh now invisible due to the ink. Some old scar.
His hand tightened around my wrist, stopping me from moving.
I flicked my gaze up to his, my heart breaking at the fear in his eyes, the shame.
“Cannon—”
“Don’t,” he said, his normal response, and one I would respect. I didn’t try to move or break his grasp, but he didn’t push me away either. I took that as a small crack in the door Cannon kept parts of himself locked inside.
“This doesn’t scare me,” I whispered, my hand still in his brushing against the scar. “You know it doesn’t.”