**

We’ve been on the road for a few hours now and she remains silent.  I know she’s still fuming that I followed through with my promise that she wouldn’t be going back to Syn.  We went by her hotel room, and as she stood pissed in the middle of the room, I packed her belongings into her suitcases.  Five minutes later, we were back in the car and on our way to Georgia.

I keep my mouth shut.  There really isn’t anything for me to gain by allowing her to pick a fight.  She wants to feel like she’s in control of her life, and by me swooping in and taking over, she’s free-falling.  It’s not that I’m trying to do that.  I just want to make sure she’s where she belongs and not dancing for a room full of assholes while being at the hands of that motherfucker…  Now that is not where she belongs.

One day, maybe she will see where I’m coming from, but if I have to get nothing but her anger in return for her safety, then I’m okay with that.

“Where are we going, Mad?” she whispers hoarsely.

“Not home, so stop worrying about it.  We’re going to a cabin in Pine Hills.  It’s sitting on fifty acres in the middle of nowhere.  You need time, I get that, but you also need help getting over everything.  So when you’re ready, we go home—but not until you’re ready.”

She’s quiet for so long that I look over at her.  Her mouth is hanging slack, her eyes bugged out in shock.

“I need time?  I need to get over everything?  Well, isn’t that magnanimous of you, Maddox Locke.”  She laughs, the sound hitting my ears and making me cringe.  “Maybe while we’re there, we can find a mirror for you to look in and repeat that shit you just shoveled at my feet to yourself.  Hello?  Pot, meet kettle.”

“This isn’t about me, Emmy.”

“Oh, you stupid, stupid man.  It’s always been about you.”

I don’t let her see it, but her words hit home.  She couldn’t have delivered a more direct shot if she’d tried.  Sure, she doesn’t know what she just did.  She doesn’t know because you never let her in, you idiot.  My mother’s words come back to me like a tsunami.  The pain of always being her stupid little boy tries to take root, but I brush it aside.  Emmy is nothing like my mother, and even as careless as her words are, she’s talking out her hurt right now.

“Emersyn,” I start.  “Don’t let my desire to protect you be confused as stupidity.  It has never been about me.  I don’t keep myself from you because I think it’s some fun goddamn game.”  I pause, needing a second to swallow the lump in my throat.  I’m trying so hard to keep my heart from breaking free from my body.  The emotions I’ve hidden for so long are rattling the cages, just waiting for that moment to pounce, and it terrifies me to think of what will be left of me if they get out.  “I’ve been told my whole life that I was the worst kinds of evil.  That my soul is as black as my eyes and that everything and everyone I touch will wilt at my hands.  So, Emmy, this,” I stress, pointing between us, “THIS has never, not once, been about me.”

The rest of the ride is uncomfortable at best.  I never intended to tell her that much.  I struggle during every mile with what I could say to take that verbal vomit and shovel it back in.  She knows more with just those few sentences than anyone else in my life.

And I’m terrified to think about what she must think of me now.  The man she has loved unconditionally for years isn’t who she thinks he is.  I’m sure she regrets every second of it now.  I’m not sure what unsettles me more—the thought that she might regret giving her love or that she might be afraid of the truth of me.

Or worse…that she’ll take that love away and never give it back.

**

When we get to Devon’s cabin, I leave her to her exploring.  She retreats to one of the back bedrooms and shuts the door softly behind her.  I give her that play, knowing that she’s processing my words.

I make sure that everything is stocked and we’ll be set for the unforeseeable future.  When that’s done, I’m left with nothing left to do.  The television holds no appeal.  I call and check in with Axel then settle on the couch.  Knowing that I have some time alone, I take a second to rub the pained muscles in my thighs.  I need to get my prosthetic off before I do more damage than necessary to my stump.  It’s been a long few weeks and I’ve felt like this was coming for a while now.  Usually when the skin gets too irritated for me to wear the prosthetic, I work from home, giving the skin the rest it needs and, sometimes, the sores time to heal.  Keeping my weight off it for a while does the trick but never fixes the issue.