the memory of those hands on him, pinning him down, holding him tight as the knife scored through his flesh, or worse, when they’d stroked him, gently, manipulating a response that rose his gorge. And then the horrid, churning humiliation as they pinned him in a different manner, and their laughter as they enjoyed him.
Jack curled in on himself, gagging even as he held himself as tightly coiled as he could manage, his arms wrapped about his drawn up-knees. The position hurt and tore into his wounds. But he’d fly into pieces if he didn’t hold on.
The door opened, and he tensed. He was safe. Safe. It wasn’t them. Couldn’t be. He shivered hard and held on.
“Jack.” Ian’s voice. Ian’s scent, as familiar as his own. He swallowed convulsively. He’d never admit it to anyone, but Ian’s scent struck a chord deep within him, at the childlike part of him that immediately thought, “father.” His own father meant nothing compared to this man. Humiliation writhed inside of him that Ian should see him like this. That he should know what had happened—for Jack was certain he did—he could not bear it.
“Get out.” His voice was no more than a dry whisper.
Footsteps sounded, bringing Ian closer, not away. Jack tucked his chin into his chest. Ian stopped next to the bed. Jack could feel him there, hovering.
“Lad.” Ian sighed, and Jack shivered until his teeth rattled. His eyes burned, a hot, wet pressure building behind them. Oh, hell, just leave. Do not see this too.
But the edge of the bed dipped as Ian sat. In the periphery of his vision, Jack saw Ian’s broad hand and his golden wolfhead ring wink in the light. Jack squeezed his eyes shut.
Ian’s voice came just the same, blunt and unemotional. “It’s a bolloxed shite thing that happened to you.”
Jack stilled, his heart in his throat and his stomach twisting. Ian made a sound of anger. “I do not know what to say to you, mo mhac. Other than if you think yourself unmanned because of… of what they did, then I’ll personally rip yer cods off and feed them to ye.”
Irritation made Jack snort. It wasn’t bloody Ian’s body being tortured in that bloody room. Bastard lycan.
“Brassed you off, did I?” Ian retorted. “Good. You deserve your rage.”
He moved, and the edge of his thigh came close enough to touch. Or punch. It was tempting, but the shaking had started again.
“You’ll heal,” Ian said. “You’re too strong to do anything less.”
The shaking grew until Jack couldn’t control it, and his world grew watery. A blur as the rage and pain tore out of him in a sob. He wasn’t aware of moving; perhaps he hadn’t, but in a blink, his face was crushed against Ian’s chest, his fists slamming into Ian’s sides as if he could pound him to dust. But the man who’d called him his son, the man he called father in his heart, simply held him fast and took the punishment as Jack raged against the irrevocable tear in his soul.
Chapter Thirty-one
London, 1869—Love Requited
Well, I think you are wrong.”
Winston stopped and gently turned Poppy away from the foot traffic that flowed along the busy sidewalk on Oxford Street, tucking her between his body and the large glass window of an empty storefront to let. Most couples took their strolls around Hyde Park or some such landscaped area. Not Poppy. She preferred to roam the city proper. And as Winston would follow her anywhere, he simply let her take them wherever her whim demanded. “Explain.”
Her stubborn chin rose a touch. “Ophelia absolutely did not go mad because of Hamlet’s defection. It is utterly absurd to presume that unrequited love can drive a person to madness. Clearly that poor woman contained a fractured mind well before Hamlet waltzed onto her stage.”
His cheeks ached in an effort not to grin. He braced an arm on the window frame, which gave him an excellent excuse to lean in close and lose himself in her lemony scent and feel the subtle warmth of her body. The ever present ache in his gut—one that she’d put there—tightened a bit more. They had been married a week. A strange time, for whenever Winston thought of events before their marriage, his mind went a bit fuzzy. They’d fought. She’d been afraid to marry… and that was when his memory became muddled. He’d gone to Paris, drunk too much absinthe—a beverage he resolved never to touch again—and he’d come home,