Author's Note: Thanks for the input, everyone! Firstly, a big thanks to Callico11852 for speaking up and saying the drama was too much-a very constructive criticism with explaining the reasoning and without bashing the story. Reviews are opinions, but I also see them as ways to get constructive criticism to enhance writing. Reviews have been scarce, so I asked for everyone's feedback because I wasn't sure if this was just one reader's view or several readers (indicating a writing style problem). I was shocked to get not just a handful of replies but nearly 20! The vote was split close to down the middle. And I appreciate that readers didn't start arguing with each other or anything. I asked for opinions, and that's what you gave. After getting everyone's feedback, I looked back at my other manuscripts and saw the drama pattern there too. When I sit down and write a group of chapters, my head works for some reason as seeing it like a TV episode that needs its own drama. That's writing a TV series, not a novel. So, I ask that you all help me work on this skill as I retrain myself because this is a writing style flaw that would probably have publishing houses slam the door in my face.
Plus during the feedback, some readers pointed out that it was like, he's scarred and she's scarred so now he'll accept her, etc, which kinda horrified me because it didn't occur to me that's how it could be interpreted. I wanted him to have a role in helping her like she has him, but clearly it wasn't a good way to present that. It sounds like the readers who liked the deleted chapters liked it because of the relationship the chapters built between Jason and Emma. Again, Callico11852 pointed out that is there already, I just need to tap into it. I liked that point, and I think I figured out how to tap into it without adding drama. I think building on the existing issue with Gaston and Jason trying to overcome the wall she's put up about it will draw out and build that strong emotional connection in a more organic fashion.
Secondly, I really liked the first story, but this sequel feels like it's floundering at times. I get now why they say don't be a "by the seat of your pants" writer-I had a fairly solid outline for the first story but a very loose outline for this one. It really came back to bite me when I decided I should do an outline from here to the end-I had to backtrack a couple chapters and take a different road. The last handful of paragraphs in Ch. 20 are new.
"Tell me what happened, Emma." His quiet tone overflowed with patience and tranquility as he continued the gentle swaying of the dance. "I won't do this anymore, sweetheart - me not knowing what he did and triggering these attacks in you. I won't torture you, and I won't teach you to fear me."
Her hands tightened on him, and her heart picked up pace a little. "You touched where he pried my legs apart," she whispered.
"Oh, Emma, I'm sorry-" His arms tightened, and head bowed a little more so his cheek rested closer to her ear.
She shook her head. "You didn't know."
"Does it frighten you when we kiss in the dark?"
She didn't want to remember, didn't want to talk about it. It made sharp pain and grief shoot through her heart to remember. "Not if you talk to me so I know it's you." Pulling out of his arms, she escaped to the bathroom and shut the door.
Oh god, between her thighs hurt like it hadn't since all those years ago. The touch of Gaston branded as fresh as if it'd just happened all over again. Defiled. Dirty. The warmth from Jason's hands blurred into Gaston's touch. She had to wash. Stripping each article of clothing off faster than the one before, she flung them aside, jerked on the shower knob, and got in without even waiting for the water to warm up. The freezing cold drops pounded down like piercing needles, drawing intense shivers. But she grabbed the soap and a rag and started scrubbing.
Her thighs. She scrubbed harder and harder to wash Gaston's touch off until the skin glowed red. The nerves still tingled from his touch. From Jason's touch, no Gaston's. The scar. Her skin crawled having the goddamn scar that wouldn't fade in it's pink color all these years later. The hideous, twisted reminder of flesh had to rub away eventually. Harder. If she scrubbed harder, maybe the excess skin would wear away. She whimpered and her face crumpled when the flesh around it started to bleed but the scar itself refused to yield.
"Emma." Jason's voice carried firm but calm from the other side of the curtain, as if knowing exactly what she was doing.
She sniffled and moved on to between her legs. Why did it hurt from Gaston? How could it? Oh god, she was going crazy in her own body, insane in her own head. The rag scraped across the delicate flesh like sandpaper, drawing a whimper of pain. But she had to get clean, had to get traces of Gaston off.
"Emma, stop." The lights flipped off and the curtain rustled. "That's enough," he coaxed, his hand following her arm and prying the rag out of her hand. Then his arms wrapped around her. His chest pressed soggy against her chest and belly, as if he still wore his clothes. "He can't hurt you anymore, angel," he whispered.
Her fingers dug into his upper arms. All the pain that had been pushed down so well crept to the surface. The cries bubbled up hard, her mouth open for a sob yet she made no sound as her shoulders shook. She slowly sank down. Jason didn't let go. He slid down with her, sitting sideways in the tub with his knees bent up to fit. She curled up against his side, with his arms around her, and drew up her legs in the fetal position. The wound in her heart, so poorly healed, ripped open. Tears mingled with the water, her soft sobs echoing with the pounding waterdrops of the shower. Please no. Jason's tenderness kept peeling back the scab to reveal a wound she'd worked so hard to keep any little jostle from breaking it open. Why was he doing this? Why was he making the pain come back when it could be shoved deep down instead?
"Let it come, Emma," he whispered. "You can't heal until you let it come."
She shook her head, losing the battle as the pain became an all-consuming monster.
He simply held on, with his head bowed and cheek rested against her forehead. The light spray of water rained down, dripping from his nose onto her bare breasts. His head helped shield the water from her face as they got drenched. But he didn't seem to care. His chest shuddered against her. And then a soft sound of grief followed as he wept.
The demon tried to claw and pull her away. She held his arm tighter, becoming so lost to the darkness.
"I won't let go, sweetheart," he sniffled. His arm slipped behind her knees, and he scooped her into his lap. The sanctuary of his arms the only thing keeping her from drowning.
She cried until her heart shut down. The water ran cold, so he shifted and shut it off. He spread a towel over her, and his tearful sniffle cut through the silence. Then his fingers glided along her leg under the towel and found the scar. Her heart slammed with shame and humiliaton, and she tried to shove his hand away. He caught it and pressed her palm to the several-inch long bump and held his hand down over hers. His voice rang strong through the dark. "Be proud that you survived this. Whenever you're scared or doubt yourself, you touch this and remember you're strong, Emma. That you can get through anything without needing anyone but yourself."
Her lip quivered, and she shook her head against his shoulder. The panic attacks and night terrors and intense fear of men...she wasn't strong anymore. Gaston had broken everything, leaving a terrified, broken coward behind.
"You're strong, Emma," he commanded.
"He," she hiccupped, "he took my virginity that should've been yours. My dignity and safety..."
He choked on a sob and his voice broke. His arms wrapped around her tighter as his chest trembled from drawing a shakey breath. "He only has the power that you give him. You have the most dignity and grace of anyone I've met, sweetheart. Feeling safe will come." He stroked her cheek. "And," he croaked, finally losing the battle against the tears. His voice broke and quivered, portraying the crumpling of his face in the darkness. "And you are a virgin because when I make you my wife, I'll be the first man you're giving yourself to."
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she buried her face against his shoulder and wept for the grief and pain, but mostly for finding a man so full of kindness and love.
He held her close, not denying her the comfort even though her arm touched his burns.
Wearing her silk nightgown a bit later, she snuggled under the blankets in her bed with him shirtless in his pajama bottoms and mask. He seemed to sense her desperate need to not talk about what had happened in the shower, to pretend at least for tonight that it hadn't happened. But her heart said he wasn't going to let this pretending go past tonight. Tomorrow could be dealt with tomorrow. Right now she needed tonight. The sweet man ordered in exactly what she needed after a good cry - ice cream. And lots of cuddling.
Every so often, it was fun having a rich boyfriend. When he ordered the room service, he didn't bat an eye over paying thirty five dollars for ice cream and a tip.
He sipped his chocolate milkshake while she ate a bowl of mint ice cream. "I pictured you a vanilla man." She smiled up at him.
"Too plain. The strawberry is too sweet. Men are actually genetically programmed to like fruit less than women. And once you turn fifty, both men's and women's tastebuds change so they like vegetables more than fruits and sugars." He flipped the TV station.
"Really? Why do you know such random things?" she laughed. This was good. The distraction helped dull the pain lurking under the surface in her heart.
With his eye on the TV, he took another sip out of the straw and shrugged. "Stomach cell turnover is four hours, and if you injure your tongue, your tastebuds grow back in two weeks. The average woman eats five feet of lipstick over her lifetime. Human saliva has a boiling point of three times higher than water when our saliva is about ninety-eight percent water. It's a law that you cannot die in the Houses of Parliment. Paraskavedekatriaphobia is fear of Friday the thirteenth. Female kangaroos are almost always pregnant and can pause pregnancy: be nursing a joey, have an embryo in the pouch drinking a different type of milk, and be pregnant. I had too much time to play on the Internet when I had eye surgery." He gave her a goofy grin.
She burst out laughing. "I can see that." He flipped the channel past a trivia game show, and she grabbed his arm. "Ooh! Go back! I bet I can beat you."
He clicked back with a grin. "Game on."
The noise level went up within ten minutes.
"An epistolary letter is written in the form of these," the TV host asked.
"Oh! Wha, wha, what is..." She shot up to her knees on the bed and wracked her brain.
"A letter," Jason cut in with a laugh, two seconds before the TV contestants.
She pushed on his arm. "That doesn't count! You have to say 'what is.'" She laughed and leaned over to take a sip of his shake.
"Hey!" He chuckled.
She let go of the straw and smiled. "You shoulda gotten me more ice cream. I ate it all."
"I can see that." He chuckled and took another sip before tilting back to her again. "And I can't beat you when you stutter it every question to stall. You're trying to get me to not interrupt so you can win. Manners don't exist in this game, honey."
She swallowed a sip of milkshake and her jaw dropped. "I am not stalling! Okay, maybe on that one. But-"
He snapped his fingers and pointed at the TV about a question. "Who is William Blake!" Then he looked at her with a smile. "You were saying you're not stalling but maybe on that one," he prompted.
"Cheater! I wasn't listening!" She slapped a hand over his left ear.
With a laugh, he pulled her into his lap. "I can hear low tones of male voices out the other ear." She fell back in his arms and stuck her tongue out at him with a sassy smile.
"Behave or I might have to catch that tongue," he smiled, his voice dropping a hint in intimacy.
"Ptolemy's Model was accepted for over one thousand years, until this Polish thinker came along," the host said.
"Who is Nicolaus Capernicus!" she shouted. When the contestant answered in kind, she flung her arms up in victory and scrambled to her knees. "Whoo! Game point!"
A deep belly laugh filled the air. "Wow, I see I had your full attention there. Alright, this is game point."
"The types of these cards used in digital cameras include microSD..." the host rambled off the question.
"Um, um, um, memory card!" she shouted, slapping his knee through the blanket with each word as she wracked her brain.
He laughed, falling over against her in hysterics.
Her mouth fell open with a smile, and she pushed on his shoulder, barely moving his weight. "You can't let me win!"
"It's just so funny seeing you panic," he wheezed and wiped his eye as he sat upright. "Alright, real game point."
"In preparation for a work published in 1828 that was twenty years in the making, he learned twenty six languages," the host said.
She stared at the TV, having no idea.
"Webster," Jason coughed under his breath.
She looked at him. He simply smiled like nothing had happened. "You can't let me win!" The contestant repeated his answer. She dropped face first onto the bed with a groan.
"It wasn't answered properly with 'Who is.' Doesn't count," he said.
She rolled over onto her back, her head now by his feet. "No, you win. I'm not taking pity points." Then she gave a fake groan of defeat. He set down his shake on the nightstand and grabbed her foot. She squealed and squirmed.
"Stop," he laughed. "I'm not going to tickle." He pulled the sheets over her waist and lifted her foot higher, keeping her decent with the short nightdress.
Her heart skipped a beat. Of course he would think ahead about being a gentleman.
Then his thumbs pressed into the underside arch of her foot, massaging away an ache that hadn't been noticable. He looked down at her toenails. "When did you paint them pink?" A smile spread across his lips.
"This morning." She flushed and wiggled her fingers at him.
He caught her hand and smiled. "Very pretty." Then he sat back and resumed massaging her feet.
Her face burned, pleased that he liked and even noticed it. "I can rub your feet." She tapped his feet under the blanket beside her head.
He made a face. "Women's feet are cute. Men's are like gorilla feet."
She smiled and watched him. He seemed so tranquil and safe. Until a few months ago, she hadn't believed anymore that such a kind man existed.
He cocked his head, a touch of a smile dancing on his lips. "You look far away, sweetheart."
The way he said it with such tenderness made her heart skip a beat. "Just thinking how much I love you." She eased her foot away and crawled over to curl up against him.
"I love you too, sweetheart." He wrapped his arm around her.
"Will you stay in here tonight?" The nightmares would come tonight, but perhaps not with Jason by her side.
His strong arms cocooned her in his warmth and protection, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'd offer my life if you but asked," he whispered and laced his fingers with hers.
His words of devotion and love brought tears to her eyes. She rested her cheek on his chest as the tears slipped out.
"We're going to get through this, Emma. You're not alone," he whispered and stroked her back. "Never forget that I believe you're beautiful, no matter what he did. Don't be afraid of telling me because you fear what I'll think, because I promise I'll only admire you more for your strength and beauty." He laid his hand over her heart. "I love you, my Emma. I love you."