Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,121

she said quickly. “I filed for divorce in March.”

“March? It’s almost July.”

“I know. He won’t cooperate. I mean, he won’t sign the petition to acknowledge he received it, so I have to go to court and convince them he’s in contempt, and it’s this whole fucked-up thing…”

“Okay,” he said. “But you don’t still want to be with him?”

“No.” The word was ripped from her chest with enough vehemence to alarm even herself. She cleared her throat. “Sorry. No. God, I fucking hate him. If you knew him, you’d—”

“I don’t need to know him,” Samir said mildly. “Ten minutes ago, I tried to touch you and you flinched so hard you almost fell off the bed. I already hate him, Laura.”

She swallowed. “The other day… the first night you stayed. I was on the phone with my sister.”

For the first time, Samir pulled back a little bit—enough to see her face. To look her in the eyes. “What did she say?” he asked gently.

Laura’s reply was a whisper. “She said she didn’t believe me.”

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t ask what, exactly, Hayley didn’t believe. He didn’t press for details or explanations or emotions she was too tired to give.

Instead, he said simply, “I believe you.” And she was flooded with a relief so intense, it was almost painful.

Then came the impulse to speak. Finally, to speak, and never ever stop.

She told him everything.

About the woman this Daniel fucker had been with for years—the mysterious Ruth—without anyone in Ravenswood even knowing. About the way he’d used her, used both of them, before turning Laura and everyone else against his ‘other woman’.

Even about the things he said and done. The poison he’d dripped into Laura’s ear during the years of their relationship. About how no-one could love her but him, about how she was nothing without him, about the way she looked and spoke and smiled until she didn’t know how to be without his approval.

Apparently, he didn’t offer that approval often.

Samir laid there with the woman he loved in his arms, and listened to the halting, desperate tale spilling from her lips like sour juice from the too-tight skin of rotting fruit. He didn’t flinch when she quoted her so-called-husband in a voice as flat and dead as driftwood. “You don’t need to work, Laura. You know you’re too stupid for that anyway. Whose dick did you have to suck to get that degree? If it weren’t for me watching you, you’d be a drunken whore like your mother. You’re lucky I want to fuck you at all, looking like that. You should be grateful.”

He didn’t falter when she described the secret ways her husband had hurt her. The way he ripped out single strands of her hair, one by one. The way he held her down. The way he covered her nose and mouth until she couldn’t breathe, because he liked to watch her panic.

He didn’t punch the fucking wall when she told him about the night she’d finally managed to leave, or the fact that she’d run to Daniel’s father rather than her own family because they refused to hear a word against the town’s sweetheart.

He couldn’t punch a wall ever again, actually. He couldn’t even slice up onions like a madman. He could never come close to losing his temper, Samir decided, because he would rather die, boiled alive from the inside out by pent-up rage, than ever do anything to make Laura flinch, or hesitate, or remember.

When she ran out of words, she kissed him. It was only the soft brush of her lips against his, tasting like salt, that made him realise he was crying too. She shouldn’t have been the one to brush away his tears, but she did. Then she kissed him again. They lay for a while, face to face, lips grazing lips in petal-soft whispers. She’d kiss him. He’d kiss her. She’d kiss him. And then one of her rigid joints would unlock and she’d do something that made his chest tighten, like touch his cheek, or run her fingers through his hair, or just hold on to him for a moment, a heartbeat. And then he’d kiss her. And she’d kiss him.

He didn’t know how long they’d been there, in their own reality, when she tried and failed to stifle a yawn against his mouth. That familiar, rosy flush crept over her chest as she looked away and mumbled, “Sorry.”

He smiled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be keeping you up.”

“You’re not keeping