~Rhys~
I had never wanted another human being dead more than I wanted to see Mike Packer's body in the ground.
After taking Emma to my little safe haven in the woods, she proceeded to curl up on the couch and fall into a state of catatonia; she said nothing, did nothing, reacted to nothing.
Nothing I did helped. I offered her food, begged her to speak, but she seemed to have collapsed within herself.
One full hour, she remained just like that.
And then another.
And another.
I painted, to release inner anguish and burn the time, and try to be patient, but it was becoming impossible. Eventually I travelled back into the main room, equal parts relieved and alarmed to see her off the couch and crouched on the floor, fingers near ripping her hair out.
"Emma . . ."
She was crying. Sobbing, actually, and the sound tore at my insides. "Leave me alone."
"No."
“Don’t come near me!” she screeched, shooting to her feet and darting around the couch, having that as her obstacle between us. Her eyes were wild and scared. Of what, I didn’t know. Me, herself . . . The world.
It sent such an abrupt and fierce protective urge racing through me I nearly tipped over from it. You can save her, that voice stated. Nothing else ever has to hurt her.
And nothing else ever would.
I launched myself over the couch. She stumbled away, gasping when she hit the wall behind her. Nowhere to go. Stuck. Trapped.
"He'll be back," she whispered frantically. "He always comes back, and he always finds me."
"He won't find you."
"Yes he will!" her hands gripped the sleeves of my shirt desperately, needing me to understand. "He'll find me, Rhys! He'll . . . He'll . . ."
"Hey," I snapped, grabbed both sides of her face. Panic flared in her eyes, and I knew then what had happened. I knew what she had been going through for the past three hours.
She remembered.
I just didn't know how much.
"Don't touch me," she said, slinking down the wall. "I can't . . . I can't trust you. I can't trust any of you. He'll probably be back and I need to get away from here . . ."
"Emmalyn, for the love of God, would you just listen to me?" I shouted, way louder than I inteded. She flinched, and I hated the fear in her eyes.
"Mike Packer is in jail," I told her. "He's going to be tried for rape and attempted murder. He won't touch you. I will not let him near you, understand?"
She just stared, uncomprehending, eyebrows dipped.
"He's in jail," I repeated. "And he cannot get to you."
"No," she whispered finally. "No, no, no. He . . . He was there, I . . . I saw him. Nobody came to save me. Nobody. And he escaped, and . . . I need to get out of here!" Before I could grab her arm she darted into the bedroom. I followed after her, watched as she searched for something I didn't know. Maybe she didn't even know what it was, either.
"Emma."
She mumbled to herself.
"Emma."
"Need to go, need to go, need to go."
Alright, that's enough. I strode toward her, reaching out and snagging her arm, dragging her against me. She fought with everything she was worth as I wrapped an arm around her waist, pinning her back against my chest, covering her eyes with my free hand.
"Let me go!" she screamed.
"Calm down, shut up, and listen," I ordered, shocked when she did. She trembled against me, fear quaking down to her bones, and more than anything, I wanted to get rid of it. "Are you calm?"
"Yes," she lied.
I would buy it for now. "Mike Packer is in jail," I said. "He can't get to you. We found him and locked him up, and we have everything we need to charge him."
She blinked. Her eyelashes brushed against my palm. Nothing so menial had ever aroused me before.
"My name is Rhys Richardson," I continued. "Do you remember me, Emma?"
"Not before waking up," she said, decidedly more calm.
"That's fine. My name is Rhys Richardson. We were on an English project together. At first we hated each other, but now we're friends."
She stopped shaking.
"I like to paint," I mentioned, grabbing for words to say. "That odor you smell is paints, probably left out over night, because I'm a lazy ass. I hate people in general, reality TV makes me want to kill someone, and I am in love with you."
She froze. I looked toward the ceiling as I said the words. They left a strange taste in my mouth, probably because I had never uttered them to anyone before.
I hoped I hadn't just made a colossal douche of myself.
"More," Emma breathed suddenly, hands gripping my arm around her waist. "Tell me more."
I propped my chin on her head and was hopeless but to do her bidding. I would stand there all damn night of she asked me to. "You like The Breakfast Club," I began. "And fast food fries. You hate obnoxious people and being in crowds. You hate people who feel worthless because sometimes you feel that way, too, and they remind you of yourself. Your father is a fed, and your mother is a grief counselor, and you attend Heart High School."
She turned, eyes remaining closed as she faced me. "More."
"You take chances on people," I said, using the crook of my finger to tilt her chin up. "You have the best heart out of anyone I have ever known. You saved me from myself."
Her teeth caught her lower lip. I wanted to devour her. "More."
I began undoing the buttons of her blouse, slowly, methodically, giving her a chance to shove me away. She didn't. "If anybody saw me with you right now, like this, my reputation would be ruined."
Her lips quirked up in a smile.
"I am so terrible for you, and undeserving, but I can't just not try." I snuck one hand between the folds of her parted shirt, tentatively settling my hand on the bare skin of her waist. "I can't stay away from you."
She opened her mouth to speak, but the impossible happened. Her fucking cell phone rang, effectively ruining the moment. A blush crawled over her face, deeper than the reddest rose. "I . . . I'm sorry," she mumbled, brushing by me to answer it. I cranked my hands up behind my head, closing my eyes, wishing the downstairs brain was as easy to cool off as the upstairs one.
And then, as if her cell phone ringing wasn't bad enough, there was a fucking knock at the door.
Holy hell.
I waited a few moments, sucking in a few cleansing deep breaths, before leaving the room to open the door. I was not completely surprised to see Rico standing on the other side.
"Rhys!" he exclaimed. "My man. How's it going?"
It was going fine until the world decided to interrupt. "Great."
"Can I come in?"
"No."
He seemed taken aback. "What? But . . . Okay, listen, I know I teased you about this place before, but . . .
"Rico," I snapped, cutting off his rambles. "That's not why."
Partial understanding filled his expression. "I see."
"Emma's here."
"Hmm."
"We're just talking."
"Sure."
"You need to get the hell out of here."
He held his hands up. "Fine, whatever. I just wanted to make sure you're okay, since you're like a brother and all to me, but I guess I took that relationship for granted. I'll just be on my way."
"Good. That's all I ask."
Rico paused half-way to his car, hands shoved in his pockets. "One more thing, Rhys."
"What?"
"Don't fuck this up."
I rolled my eyes. "Bye, Rico."
He sped away in his car, laughing his stupid head off.
"Rhys."
Whirling around, I spotted Emma standing hesitantly a few feet away. "Yeah?"
"Who was that?"
"Nobody, just . . . How are you?"
Everything sort of felt awkward. I was still majorly aroused, and she was no doubt lost and confused, only holding a partial memory. And her fucking blouse was still undone, basically stripping me of any and all self-control I could maintain. "Okay," she said, probably another lie.
"Awesome." Oh, God, I need a cold shower. "Do you, uh, want me to drive you home or something?"
"No."
I blinked. "Huh?"
"No, I don't want you to drive me home."
"Well, you can't walk . . ."
"Rhys," she insisted, a small smile pulling up one corner of her mouth. "I don't want to go home."
I thought I was hallucinating. "You don't."
"No."
"So . . . You want to stay here?"
"Yes."
"With me."
"Yes."
"Just making sure you know what this entails," I said as she approached me. "I'm an asshole."
She reached out a hand, running the tips of her nails along my jaw. Everything within me settled into place. "I don't care."
"You don't even remember everything."
"I remember enough."
"Then ask me, Emma. Whatever it is you want, just ask."
She looked up at me, just looked, and for a second I almost thought she would change her mind. I nearly panicked.
“When you care about someone, when you love someone, you put them before you.”
Would I forever be hearing my dad’s and Rico’s voice in my head? The thought was highly disturbing and equally terrifying.
“Rhys.”
Her voice was barely more than a breath, a release of air. But I heard it; I would always hear it. “Yes?”
The tear rolled down her temple, tripping onto her collarbone, down her chest. “Love me.”
All she had to do was ask.
I was already hers.
So I cupped the back of her neck, resting my forehead against hers, and I said, "Always."