She glares at me. “Don’t set him up like that. Isn’t what happened to me bad enough?” Her hand still caresses her leg. “He’s a kid, Finn. Just let him be.”
“You have to let him be a man sometime.” It’s not what I intended to say. I’m not sure where that came from. “You can’t always keep him safe. You need to let him make mistakes and figure things out for himself.”
“We don’t have the luxury of fucking up. You saw my father. Would you want to fuck up if it means that’s your future?”
Her honey blonde hair looks pretty in the fire’s glow.
“I suppose not,” I relent. “How about another deal, then? If you give me the name of the lead organizer on staff, I’ll make sure your brother gets his college degree paid for.”
She opens her mouth, parting those pink lips, and takes in a small breath. This would solve her problems. One of mine too. I have a lot of connections in the academic world from all the time I spend at the Boston Athenaeum. Pulling some strings for Benjamin isn’t a problem, if she makes it worth my while.
“Think about it. Really think about it, Sasha. Think about your father and see if you want to keep your secrets if it means throwing away a chance to get your brother his education debt free. It’d be a big turning point for your family.”
She continues fussing with her leg, her fingertips going white again despite the heat. It happens when she’s nervous. I wonder if she’s nervous that she’ll give in, betray her contact.
“What’s wrong with your leg? I didn’t hurt you earlier, did I?”
I say it partially to make the heat rise to her cheeks again, but partially because I need to be more careful with her. Her full, luscious tits and ass had distracted me from her fragile frame until her delicate wrists were so easily immobilized by just one of my hands.
I’d noticed the thick scar on the back of one of her wrists. A relic from her time with Hamish and P.J., I’m sure.
“No,” she says. “I’m okay. My shin aches where the bone broke sometimes.”
Another relic.
I need to put my part in that out of my mind.
“Sit next to me, I have to tell you something.”
She looks dubious.
But then she licks her lips as her eyes flick to my cock.
She wants me to touch her intimately again, even if she’s not ready to admit it to herself. I’d love to give her that, make her come for a second time. But it might lead to something she’s not ready for, and I don’t want to do that. She needs me to be patient. But I can touch her in other ways that she’ll enjoy.
“Here, on the other end of the couch.”
She reluctantly gets up. I guide her to the couch and have her stretch out her sore leg. Easing up her pant leg, she shivers as I start massaging her calf.
“I used to get the worst shin splints,” I say, shifting to her shins and doing a thumb iron up next to the bone. “They hurt like hell—it’s the muscle tearing away from the bone.”
“You a runner?” she asks, wincing.
“Not consistently, but my brothers and I—well, and Catriona—play rugby together whenever we can.”
“Your sister? Ow.”
I ease off for a minute. “Yes. Middle sister. The other girls weren’t interested, but Catriona always marches to her own drumbeat.”
She nods. “I never was any good at sports. Benjamin’s a great athlete though.”
Again with her brother.
“What did you want to tell me?” she asks, closing her eyes and grimacing.
I can feel where her bone was broken. There’s a hard, calcified bump where the injury healed.
“Your brother,” I say.
“Why are you trying to tell me about my brother, Finn? You met him once.”
“I know, and he wears his heart on his sleeve. Am I wrong?”
She doesn’t say anything. I gently probe around her injury and work on the surrounding muscles.
“He’s angry. He’s angry at your father for hurting you.”
Her eyes flash open. “What?”
Her leg is slender and delicate in my hands. I can’t waste time thinking about the past, about what happened. Hopefully she’ll hear what I’m saying and take the deal.
Otherwise I won’t be able to protect her from my father, even if I wanted to.
“I like your brother,” I continue. “He’s brave. But being brave can also make you stupid.” I give her a pointed look. “Your father said some nasty things about you to him while I was there.”
Her hands flutter up from her lap, and she clenches them into fists before digging them into her thighs.
“What did he say?” She emphasizes each word, like she has to force them out.
I leave out the comments on her virginity. Pretty sure she’ll figure that out on her own, given what I’d said to her earlier.
“That he only hits you when Benjamin isn’t there.”
She’s looking at my scar.
No, my father didn’t give that to me. Not directly anyway.
“Has he always done that?”
Her eyes are shiny. She blinks away tears, and I see her grow cold, distant.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says blandly. “But I didn’t want Benjamin to know.”
“Let your brother know how he can help you, too. It’ll mean a lot to him.” I stroke my fingers up her leg. She relaxes on the couch and closes her eyes again.
I want to tell her she deserves better than what her life is right now, but it seems hypocritical when I’m trying to control her in a different way. Though I hope she takes the better options I’m offering.
My hand trails up her thigh. Dangerous ground. I stop and then stand up, moving behind her. She jerks up, on alert.
“Ssh,” I say. “I know you’re upset. I know this situation is unfair.” I start rubbing her shoulders through that ugly sweater. Her muscles are rock-hard with tension. It takes her a few minutes, but she starts to relax again. As I press the base of my thumb into the back of her neck, she yelps.
The bruising.
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
It’s too late, though. Her walls are up again; I have only myself to blame. I put one hand on her shoulder and stroke another through her hair. She shivers. Has a man ever touched her gently? Affectionately?
Don’t overthink this, Finn. You have work to do.
I cook dinner again. Sasha must be starving—I know I am. It’s just a simple pesto pasta this time with a breaded chicken. She watches me cook and I like how she looks at me when I do.
I’ve never been the settling down type, but if I were, I imagine I’d cook fun dinners with my partner and dine over long conversations about art, literature, politics: all of the things my father pretends to take an interest in for show. But he’s too soulless to truly care about culture.
I put the plates down and smile at Sasha. She’s taking everything in, observing. I’ve pushed her enough on the union today. Anymore and she might just up and leave. Take her chances. I need a little more time with her to help her see her way out of all this. The right way out, by taking me up on my offer.
“So where is your family from, originally?” I ask.
“Chelsea. Massachusetts, that is,” she says. “But before then, most of my relatives came from Scotland. Saunders is a Celtic version a pet name for Alexander, I guess. It means defender of men.”