to my eyes. "Jane. Oh, god, Jane."
For a moment, he just holds me. Then he gets up and walks to the window. He stands there for a little bit, just looking out. When he speaks, his back is still to me. "I do remember," he says. "The truth is, I haven't forgotten a single moment of those days in the dark. Honestly, I wish I could."
My heart hurts simply from the pain in his voice. "It's okay," I say. "You don't have to tell me."
"Honestly, I don't think I can. Not all of it. Not at once."
I want to stand up and go to him. I want to touch him. But his back is still to me, and I don't know if going to him would help, or would simply draw him back inside himself.
"It was the Woman," he says. "It was only her. He may have watched, I don't know. But she was the one who was there. Always there."
"After I was gone?"
He turns from the window, and his eyes are full of pain. "Before, too, but it was more after."
"When they took you away from me," I say flatly. "You'd come back and be so distant for a while. I thought--I thought they were doing something horrible to you."
"They were." He draws a deep breath. "I was terrified they were doing--stuff--to you, too."
"She tied me down. Arms and legs spread-eagled and then bound with those leather straps. And she'd strip me first so that I was naked."
"Oh, baby. Like what they did to you that first week. You should have told me back then. You must have been so scared."
I nod, hating the memory. Hating how afraid I'd been, but I hadn't wanted to make it worse for Dallas. "She'd call me a slut. A whore. But it was all better when they shoved me back into the cell with you, so I never wanted to talk about it. I just wanted you. And she never touched me except to tie me down. Did she touch you?"
His laugh is harsh. "Yeah. You could say that."
I swallow, because I don't want to hear this. And at the same time, I do. I want to know because I want to help him heal.
For a second, I think it's a moot point. He's silent, and I think he may be done talking about it. Then he begins to speak, so softly I have to strain to hear. "The room was always dark, and she always wore a mask. But not the carnival style she would wear when we were together. This one kept her mouth free. She liked to use her mouth," he adds harshly.
"The first time she made me get undressed, then strapped me to the wall. Bare cement. Metal hooks that held the straps. She bound my legs and ankles. She jerked me off until I came--and then she whipped my cock and my balls until I begged her to stop."
His voice is flat. Toneless.
I realize that I am biting my fist.
"She'd start over again, and every time I came, she punished me." He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then opens them. When he looks at me, his expression is fierce. "That's how it started." I watch his throat move as he swallows. "Those were the easy days. The ones that came after..."
He breaks off with a shudder and I can no longer stay away. I move into his arms and hold him tight, tears streaming down my face. "Don't think about it," I order. "Just hold me."
He does, and I cling to him, and suddenly I'm shaking with sobs. I can't stop, and I'm choking as I try to catch my breath.
"Oh, sweetheart. Baby, it's okay."
I cling to him, letting him stroke my back until I can pull myself together, ashamed that I have lost control. "I should be the one comforting you," I manage to say through my sniffles and sobs. I pull back so I can see him through the blur of my tears. "I'm so sorry."
I reach out and cup his cheek, needing that connection. I know that he hasn't told me everything--I could see the shadows in his eyes as he edited his words. But he has told me enough to know the truth. And the truth is horrific.
"You should have told me," I said. "Back then. You should have told me what she was doing."
"And bring that nightmare between us? Never? Even in that hell hole, being with you was perfect. No way was I going to spoil the bubble we'd built around us."
I nod, because I understand. I do. In a small way, hadn't I done the same?
"But afterward, when you were free? Why did you lie?" I ask. "Why have you always said you don't remember?"
"It was too much," he says. "Too hard. Too everything. And I couldn't process it. And I didn't want Mom and Dad to know. Or you," he adds before I can ask. He takes my hand and we walk back to the bed. "I was ashamed, even though I knew none of it was my fault. And I think even back then I understood that it had changed me."