Man of Honor (Battle Scars #3) - Diana Gardin Page 0,58
six missed calls from my brother. And three texts.
I open the first text message.
Call me.
The second text message is a bit longer.
I don’t want to text this, Mea. Call me.
My stomach plummets toward the floor. My fingers tremble along the warm metal of my phone as I open the third text. I read the two words there and can’t control the strangled cry that leaves my throat.
He’s out.
Drake is off the bed and across the room in a second, pulling the phone from my hand and pulling me into his arms. Over my shoulders, he reads the text. I can hear the confusion in his voice as he grinds out his question. “Who’s ‘he’? Out of where?”
I try to take a breath, but no air flows into my lungs. I realize I must be having a panic attack at the same time that Drake does. He lifts me into his arms and places me on the bed before he crawls in beside me. Pulling me to him, he strokes my hair as my entire body convulses with terror. Cold, hard terror that steals your breath and your words.
“Shhh, baby girl. I’m here. No one will hurt you, I swear to you. I’m right here.” He murmurs the words and ones just like them over and over again. I have no idea how long it takes for the attack to subside, but when it does my body is empty and cold. My limbs are weak and heavy. But at least I can breathe again.
“It’s my…it’s my father.”
Drake stiffens, but he doesn’t stop his comforting stroking. He waits for me to tell him more.
I run my hands along his bare chest. As soon as we came into my room, he stripped off his shirt, dropping it on the floor before sitting on my bed. I’m so glad for the bare skin contact now. It’s as soothing as his voice and the cloak of his arms around me.
“He’s been in prison since I was fifteen years old. When I was thirteen and a half, I told a teacher that he had been…assaulting me…for the previous two years.”
Drake takes a deep breath beneath me. I hold mine, waiting for his reaction.
I’ve never told anyone this. Especially not a man. It’s humiliating, and it makes me feel dirty just speaking the words. Thinking about them is difficult enough, but thanks to the therapy my aunt and uncle made me endure for two years when I arrived at their home, I had developed skills to cope. The nightmares stopped, or at least became extremely rare.
“Mea.” I’ve never heard his voice sound this way. It’s as if he’s been swallowing broken glass. It sounds like it hurts him just to speak. “Did he hit you?”
I shake my head. A tear leaks out of my eye and lands on Drake’s chest. And then another. And another. “He was always kind of a control freak, you know? My mom…I remember her being so wonderful and normal when I was younger. But she developed mental illness when I was around seven or eight. And she just kept retreating into herself more and more until she was barely there at all. She would still move around the house, but I never heard her voice. She never looked at anyone. Now, I wonder if her illness wasn’t spurred on by a desire to escape him.” I sniff, trying hard to stem the flow of tears that are so freely falling now.
Drake’s hand rubs small circles on my back. He doesn’t speak, just listens.
“He wasn’t violent. Not like you’re thinking. But he would drink…and then his temper was worse. I would always shelter Mikah from it as best I could. But when my mom disappeared…he had appetites that weren’t being satisfied anymore. One night he came into my room and told me it was my job to take her place.”
“Fuck.” His body jerks like he’s been punched. Gently, he slides me off of his chest and stands. Pacing the room much like I had just moments ago, I watch with every single muscle inside of me tightening into painful coils. He reaches the small rolltop desk and leans over it, pressing the wood with his big, strong hands.
Shaking his head back and forth, back and forth. “No, baby. No.”
I just watch him. I can’t tell him it isn’t true. As much as I want to. And watching the way it’s killing him…it’s killing me.
Then, he pounds both fists against it, making me startle.