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Instead he leans in, pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder.

He waits for me to continue, so I do.

“He tossed me in the car, took my keys, and drove me to the trap—this condemned house we took over. When I saw it again after being away, not to mention sober, I almost couldn’t believe I had been living there. The smell alone was . . . I don’t have words to describe it.

“Steve was still staying there. He was spiraling, totally paranoid. He berated me for eight hours—screaming, shoving me around, getting in my face, punching holes in the walls. I’d seen him in psychosis before, but this was on a whole new level.

“I sat petrified with my back plastered to the wall, kept my eyes down—I knew from experience that that was my best chance at deescalating the situation. I had to pee so badly I’d started shaking, it was painful. When he drew a gun and held it to my temple, I couldn’t hold it anymore. I was so afraid of how Rhys would find me. Letting him down one last time, ruining his life.”

I hate the next part. Fuck, here come the tears.

“I’ll never forget the hollow click when he pulled the trigger. I really thought that was the sound of my life ending. But nothing happened. The gun wasn’t loaded. He left the room, likely searching for a box of bullets, and for a brief moment I thought I might be able to survive. I moved—barely, desperately, I just needed to get to the door. Then his footsteps returned. He noticed I wasn’t standing over the soaked carpet along the wall anymore, and the look on his face told me I’d only made it worse. He charged at me.”

I shudder a shaky breath.

“His eyes were empty and black, he was completely gone. I fought back with everything I had, really I did, but when he slammed my head against the wall, I dropped. I tried to crawl away but he jumped on my back, holding me down. Steve grabbed the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be a screwdriver. That’s when he gave me the scars. I don’t remember what happened after, but when I woke up, there was a needle in my arm.”

Casper’s throat bobs and he curls my body into his chest.

“I did get high on my own accord in the days that followed. Steve apologized profusely. He even stole some antibiotics to keep my back from getting infected. A couple days later, he left to do a pickup, and I got out of there. I made my way home and told Rhys I’d relapsed and wanted to go back to rehab, and that’s where I detoxed and healed. Steve ended up in jail while I was there. Only a couple years, I think for theft, I hope it was the pharmacy he robbed.

“I never let my brother see my back, and never reported it. I was afraid of more retaliation, and knew it would have destroyed Rhys. He would have tried to murder the guy, which would, at best, cost him his career and marriage, and worst, would have gotten him killed. I couldn’t take more hurt.”

My lips part when I realize what I’ve just done.

I told Casper—I told him everything.

The release crashes into me and the last of my strength goes with it. Sobs rip from my chest before I can swallow them down. Casper delves a hand into my hair and wraps an arm around me. My shoulders shake as the tears fall, and he anchors me to his chest. He gives me all the time I need, and I take it. Eventually, a calm washes over, and I’m left feeling relieved and . . . lighter. We lie together in silence, his palm still smoothing over my arm in a steady rhythm.

I brush my hands over my swollen cheeks and take a restoring breath.

He hooks a finger under my chin, raising it just enough that I can’t hide—steady and sure. I force myself to hold his stare, bracing for the hurt. He studies me, like he’s absorbing everything I just told him and deciding what to do with it. Did I lose him?

His thumb sweeps under my eye, catching a tear before it falls.

“I love that version of you too.”

I blink at him; for a second I’m not even sure I’m breathing. After dragging every ugly, broken thing about myself into the light, his words don’t feel real. Yet he’s looking at me like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever told. I’m too afraid to question him for fear the words might disappear . . . because deep down I want to believe them so bad it aches. There’s no way I heard him correctly.

I shake my head. “I don’t think you meant to say what you just said.”

“I did.”

“No, you said⁠—”

“I said I love you.”

My fingers trace over his jaw and draw him closer until our lips graze. I just told him the worst parts of me . . . and he tells me he loves me. Somewhere hidden in my chest those words exist for him, but I’m not ready to bring them to the surface. “I don’t know how to say that back to you yet,” I tell him.

“That’s okay. You will. I’m irresistible.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “You’re going to wait me out?”

“Please. You don’t stand a chance,” he murmurs, wrapping me in his arms and kissing me like he’s done arguing. His mouth moves over mine slowly, like he’s trying to pour those three words into me.

“Thank you,” he adds.

“For what?”