Butch realized he’d stopped breathing only because his lungs began to burn—and inflating them with a ragged inhale did little to improve that sense of suffocation.

Marissa shook her head gravely. “This is not about whether or not you were ever with Xhex. It’s about the fact that you didn’t think I could handle you telling me. Isn’t it. You didn’t want to hurt my feelings, and that’s noble, but don’t couch what happened between the two of you in terms of being ‘unimportant.’ That’s a copout.” She shook her head sadly. “The whole sex-club thing is the same. So is your issue about blow jobs—which you also refuse to discuss with me. The bottom line is, you have a very flattering, but very limiting opinion of me. You want to caretake me, but you’re putting me in a prison—and no offense, I grew up in the glymera being told all the things I couldn’t do because of who and what I was. I’m not going to put up with that anymore.”

God … he felt like he’d been shot. And not because anything in particular was hurting. It was more that sense of encroaching cold as your blood leaked out all over the place that he was dealing with. Same sense of dizziness and disassociation from reality, too.

“So what’s it going to be, Butch?” she said softly. “What are you going to do.”

As Marissa fell silent, she honestly had no idea where her hellren was, what he was thinking about, whether he’d even heard a word she’d said. And it was weird: Her heart wasn’t even hammering, and her palms were not sweaty—which, considering the crossroads they’d gotten to, was a surprise.

Then again, she’d said her bit as calmly and kindly as she could. Now it really was up to him; their future was in his hands alone in so many ways.

When he shifted in the chair, she braced herself for him to walk out, but all he did was plug his elbows into his knees and rub that shadow of a beard on his jaw. His other hand took the giant gold cross he wore out of his black shirt.

Okay, wait, now her hands were getting a little sweaty.

“I, ah…” He cleared his throat. “That’s a lot to take in.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“All right.”

For some reason, the soft hum of the computer became very loud, as if her ears were trying so hard to pick up sound from her mate that they’d amplified everything else.

He cleared his throat again. “I didn’t know I was so bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“Our relationship.”

“I’m still in love with you. I still want you. You haven’t failed at everything—and I’m part of the problem. It’s not like I’ve been so chatty-Cathy, either.”

“Not so sure about that. The me failing part of it, that is.”

Now she sat forward, too, and extended an arm across the desk even though she couldn’t quite reach him—and wasn’t there a metaphor in that. “Butch, don’t … please don’t beat yourself up about it. That’s not going to help either one of us. Talk to me. You’ve got to talk to me—that’s all I’m saying.”

“You’re saying a lot more than that.”

She threw up her hands. “I don’t have to go to the club if it’s that horrific for you. I don’t have to finish you off with a blow job if it really doesn’t turn you on. All I’m saying is, you need to tell me why, and we need to talk things through—there has to be another kind of communication that goes on other than you going silent after you tell me it’s because I’m a ‘good girl and good girls don’t do that, can’t handle that.’”

Butch steepled his fingers and bumped the tips against his lips. “I didn’t tell you about the nightmare stuff because I find it so fucking disturbing when it happens that the last thing I want is to bring it up when it’s not on my mind. I get really fucking pissed off at the shit that’s still haunting me, and I feel like … if I talk about it, it gives it more power over me.”

She thought about her conversation with Rhage’s shellan the night before last. “I’m pretty sure Mary would say the opposite. That the more you talk about it, the less power it has.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know.”

Marissa found herself wanting to press, but dialed that back. She had the impression the door had been cracked, and the last thing she wanted to do was scare the damn thing closed.

“As for the blow jobs…” A flush hit his cheeks. “You’re right. I don’t want to talk to you about that because I’m ashamed of myself.”

“For what?” she breathed.

“’Cause…”

Tell me, she thought at him as he struggled. You can do this … tell me.

His eyes flicked up to hers. “Listen, I’m not interested in you pulling some position paper on what I’m about to say next, okay? How I’m supposed to get over myself. Are we clear?”

Marissa’s eyebrows popped. “Of course. I promise.”

“You want me to talk, that’s fine. But if you come back at me with some PC bullshit, I’m not gonna take it well.”

As she had never before hit him with any “PC bullshit,” she was very sure he was drawing boundaries because he felt vulnerable.

“I promise.”

He nodded as if they’d struck a deal. “I was raised Catholic, okay? And that would be real Catholic, not casual Catholic. And I’m sorry—I got taught that only whores and sluts did that. And you … you’re everything I could ever want in a female.”

Abruptly, he dropped his eyes and couldn’t seem to go on.

“Why are you ashamed?” she whispered.

He grimaced so hard his whole face nearly disappeared into his brows. “Because I…”

“Because you want me to finish?”

All he could manage was a nod. Then he looked up sharply. “Why is that a relief for you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You just exhaled like you’re relieved.”

She started to smile at him. “I thought you were never going to let me do it—and I’ve always wanted to find out what it’s like.”

Her hellren’s face turned beet red. Beet. Red. “I just … I don’t want to disrespect you. And that’s what my background tells me happens when you do that in a girl’s mouth—you don’t like her, you don’t love her, you don’t respect her. And yeah, sure, I should throw all that hardwiring out, but it’s not so easy.”

Marissa thought about her struggles with what her upbringing had left her with. “Boy, do I get that one. I feel like I should stop being bitter and insecure about my brother and my years in the glymera. But it’s like I learned too well that that stove burned, you know?”

“Totally.” He smiled a little. Then rubbed his face. “Am I as red as I think I am.”

“Yes. And it’s adorable.”

He laughed in a short burst—but then he got serious. And stayed that way. “There’s another reason. Well, with the club thing, there’s another reason … but it’s crazy thinking. I mean, really crazy.”

“I’m not afraid. As long as you’re talking, I am honestly not afraid of anything.”

Already she could feel the connection growing between them—and it wasn’t the short-lived kind you got when you just had some good orgasms, but then had to return to everything that still hadn’t been fixed.

This was the concrete kind. The bedrock kind.

The I-loved-my-partner-before-but-now-it’s-even-more kind.

And she knew he was getting ready to talk about his sister because his entire body went still—to the point that he didn’t appear to be breathing. And then a glaze of tears appeared across his beautiful hazel eyes.

When she went to get up and go to him, he slashed his hand through the air. “Don’t you dare. Don’t touch me, don’t come over here. If you want me to talk, you gotta give me some space right now.”

Marissa slowly lowered herself back into the chair. And as her heart thundered against her ribs, she had to part her lips to keep drawing breath.

“I’ve always been superstitious…” he said softly, like he was talking to himself. “You know, a superstitious thinker. I draw all kinds of connections that don’t really exist. It’s like what I was saying to Axe about the exam gloves. On a rational level, I understand that I’m not leaving any part of me in or on those bodies, but … it doesn’t feel like that.”