Chapter 403
[ 494 words ]
Chapter 403:
This accidental injury was the final, irrefutable proof for his twisted theory. It was the nail in the coffin of his hope.
He pushed himself off the bed again, and this time there was no hesitation. His eyes were hollow, the fight completely gone, leaving only a dead, gray emptiness.
Caroline stared at his bleeding lip, at the utter devastation in his eyes. She was at the edge of the cliff. He was about to step off, and he was going to take everything with him.
“No!” she screamed. “It’s not that!”
He stopped, his back to her.
𝗔𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗼𝗺
“I’m not disgusted by you!” she cried, the words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. “I’m… I’m scared!”
She had finally said it. A piece of the truth.
“I’m not used to… to being this close to anyone,” she sobbed. “I just need time. That’s all. It’s not you!”
The confession, as incomplete as it was, clearly negated his core fear. It wasn’t about disgust.
Jarrod’s movement toward the door halted. He stood frozen for a long moment, his back still to her. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head, looking back at her over his shoulder. The deadness in his eyes was gone, replaced by a flicker of confusion, and beneath it, a fragile, terrified glimmer of hope.
He stood there, caught between leaving and staying, the word “scared” echoing in the space between them. It was a different narrative, one he hadn’t considered. Caroline knew that words alone weren’t enough. She had to close the distance.
She slid off the bed and went to him. From behind, she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her cheek firmly against the hard muscle of his back. This embrace was different from the panicked grab before. It was deliberate, gentle, an anchor meant to hold him in place. She could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, the rapid, unsteady beat of his heart against her ear.
“How could I ever be disgusted by you?” she whispered, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt, thick with unshed tears.
She felt him take a ragged breath.
“I sliced my own arm open so you wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty,” she said, her voice gaining a fierce, quiet strength. “Jarrod, do you really think a woman does that for a man she can’t stand to be near?”
She was using her most extreme act as the ultimate proof of her devotion. The logic was brutal, irrefutable, and it struck him like a physical blow. She felt a tremor run through his body.
“I just… I never had anyone to show me how,” she confessed, the rest of the truth pouring out. “My childhood, it wasn’t… warm. I don’t know how to do this. How to be… intimate. I’m afraid I’ll do it wrong. I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”
She laid her deepest insecurity bare. It wasn’t performance anxiety in a sexual sense; it was a profound fear of failing at the emotional connection that came with it.
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