She remained silent. Damn her. Her strong fingers continued to work on his neck muscles, a deep massage. He couldn’t look at her expression. He rubbed his chin on her belly, kissed her soft skin and then nipped her with his teeth. She didn’t so much as flinch. He soothed that little nip with his tongue.
He felt the breath move in and out of her while he traced his name on her belly and then on her thigh over the thin material of her jeans. “Seychelle? For fuck’s sake. Did you hear what I said to you? Do you know the things they taught me? The number of ways they taught me to hurt people?”
Her fingers moved over his temples. “Does it matter how many ways they taught you to kill, Savage? They taught a child to kill. They taught a child to need to see whip marks on a body in order to be aroused. They trained you. Groomed you. It doesn’t matter if you enjoyed it. Of course you did. How could you not? As for going out and assassinating targets for Sorbacov or your country? I imagine that was the only thing you could do. And it might have been the only thing that you could take pride in doing sometimes.”
That right there was one of the many reasons he was so fucking in love with her. How could she hear the absolute wreck of his life, the things he’d done, and not condemn him? Not judge him? There was too much compassion in her. He sat up, feeling guilt for not giving her the truth of what he did for his club, but certain she was still too fragile—or he was. She hadn’t made up her mind about Torpedo Ink. He knew she was wary of them.
She stroked her fingers down his face and removed them, leaving him feeling a little empty. He shifted his weight to allow her to get up. He was heavy and knew she couldn’t have been too comfortable.
“You find out everything you needed to know? We done yet?” He sat on the edge of the couch, watching her closely.
“No, we’re not.” She wandered over to the window to stare out at the crashing waves. White water sprayed dramatically over dark, hulking boulders into the sky. “You haven’t told me when you started taking on the pain for your brothers and sisters in the club or how long you’ve been doing it. Why they don’t know and why it’s so important to you that they continue not to know.”
He went very still. There was no hiding from Seychelle. He’d been a fool to even try. From the very beginning he’d thought he was going to be able to, but he should have known the moment he’d cradled her in his arms and she’d known about Shari, the bitch who had followed him from San Francisco and he’d made such a mistake, using her for a second time when he made it a rule never to do that. Seychelle had known. She’d seen right into his mind. Czar had been right. He knew she would eventually see everything Savage didn’t want her to see. Czar always knew these things. He needed time. More time. It was always about time.
Savage came up behind her, close, inhaling her scent. That special fragrance that was all Seychelle. Wild strawberries. Honey. Just smelling her hair, her skin, soothed him. He ran his thumb slowly down her spine. “We talked about this.”
“No, we actually didn’t, Savage. You glossed over it. I get that you’re worried I’ll blame the others when things get rough.” She leaned back, letting him take her weight.
At least she understood that there would come a time when it would get rough. He could teach her so many things. He could give her body so much pleasure—and he would—but there would come that day when he would need so much more, and she would have to provide that for him. She already understood that he was gathering the rage and pain from his brothers and sisters and keeping it like some dragon, hoarding an obscene treasure he couldn’t rid himself of alone.
He wrapped his arms around her waist as she put her head on his shoulder, a spear of despair striking straight to his heart. “You know what I’m giving you isn’t something to romanticize, Seychelle. No matter how sensual and good I can make it for you, it still isn’t right to have to hurt the woman I love in order to get off—to put welts on her body to be aroused. To train her body to like that shit. It’s fucked up. It’s always going to be fucked up. It isn’t something I want for you—or for me either, for that matter. I tried to find ways to get away from it, especially once I laid eyes on you, but even Absinthe and Scarlet can’t make this go away.”
Seychelle laid her hands over his. She didn’t try to hide the slight trembling, the indication of nerves, but then she was honest in their relationship. In her feelings. “I’ve never asked or expected you to be different, Savage. I made the choice to be with you as you are. I may take time to learn, but I will.”
There was no blame in her voice. No expectation of blame. Simply acceptance. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her neck because he knew how bad his needs could get—she didn’t. But she would.
He pressed his lips to her temple. “I want you to always remember, it’s my choice to take on whatever I do of the others’ rage, anger, pain, emotional distress, whatever I choose. They are completely unaware. I never take it all from them, just drain enough that they can deal. It isn’t something they ever asked me to do, and if they knew, they would be upset. If what I have to do to get rid of it ever is too much for you, I always want you to remember the blame lies with me, not them.”
He had to spell that out to her. He had to let her know that what happened inside him, that merciless, brutal volcano holding the demons would erupt and let them out and it would get bad. But that was on him. No one else. He waited. She remained silent. Waiting. So Seychelle. So patient.
“If there was one child in that school of nearly three hundred who Sorbacov despised, it was Czar. There were many older than he was, but it didn’t matter. Czar’s strong. He has a will of fuckin’ steel. No matter what Sorbacov did to him, or had done to him, and I swear once, they broke nearly every bone in his body, he never wavered. Never broke. Czar just doesn’t. He makes you believe. Sorbacov, I think, came to believe he was the enemy, his own personal demon.”
“Why didn’t he just kill him?”
Savage tapped out a rhythm on her shoulder with his fingers unknowingly, the code from his childhood when they sent messages to one another, the code Czar taught them. “Sorbacov liked games. Puzzles. And he didn’t like being bested. He wanted to win. That meant he had to actually win. With Czar, he thought he could by threatening Czar’s birth brothers. Sorbacov was certain he could break Czar through rape and torture. Sorbacov thought he could force Czar to give in, and he could bring one or more of the brothers to the school. Czar never gave in, although Sorbacov cheated and brought Gavriil, one of Czar’s birth brothers, there once or twice. Sorbacov claimed Gavriil had brought it on himself. Czar somehow made Sorbacov send him back to the other school.”
Savage caught her hand and tugged her around, taking her through the house to the master bathroom so he could walk her through to the wide grotto. He bent to turn on the taps. “You have to remember, Czar was just a kid, but he developed a way for us to fight back. He taught us to practice psychic talents. He devised ways to hone our skills with weapons we didn’t even have. He gave us hope, but most importantly, he gave us a code of honor and taught us to have a moral compass. It might not feel that way to everyone, but he kept us human when they wanted us to be killing machines.”