Page 21 of Brick’s Anchor

"I know you're strong enough to survive what happened to you. I know you threw a cup at my head instead of giving up. I know you care about those other women enough that you wouldn't leave without seeing them safe. I know you're scared and angry but you’re still standing." He pauses. "That's enough."

"That's not who I am. That's just survival instinct."

"Survival instinct is who you are when everything else is stripped away. It's the truest version of yourself."

I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the idea that the worst moments of my life might have revealed something real instead of something ruined.

"I'm so angry," I say finally. "All the time. At everyone. At my ex for putting me there. At the guards for keeping me there. At myself for being stupid enough to date a Viper in the first place. At my family for warning me and being right. At the world for being this fucked up. At you."

"At me?"

"Yes. At you. For being nice when I don't want you to be. For giving me your cut when I don't deserve it. For sitting on the floor with me and bringing me out here and acting like I matter when I'm just—" I gesture at myself. "This."

"You matter," he says simply.

"You don't know that."

"Yeah. I do."

"How?"

"Because everyone matters. Because you're a person who survived something terrible. Because those other women looked to you when we got them out. I saw it. They followed your lead. You became something to them in that warehouse." He takes a step closer. Just one. Testing. "You matter, Rosie. Whether you believe it or not."

Tears burn behind my eyes. I refuse to let them fall. "Don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Be kind to me. I can't… I can't handle kind right now. Anger is easier. Distance is safer. This, whatever this is, I don't know how to survive it."

"You don't have to survive it. You just have to let it exist."

"I don't know how."

"Then learn. One thing at a time. That's what you said earlier, right?" He moves another step closer. Still not in my space. Still giving me room to breathe. "You're allowed to be angry and broken and terrified. You're allowed to hate all men including me. You're allowed to feel however you feel. But you're not allowed to pretend you don't matter. Not while you're wearing my cut."

I look down at the leather. At the patches that mean something to him, something to this club, something I don't fully understand yet. "Why does this matter so much to you? The cut, I mean."

"Because it's mine. And I don't give my things to people who don't matter."

The tears spill over. I can't stop them this time. They run hot down my cheeks and I hate them, hate that I'm crying in front of him, hate that I'm this weak.

"I'm not weak," I say out loud, even though he didn't say anything.

"I know you're not."

"I'm crying."

"Crying isn't weakness. It's processing. It's your body trying to release what it can't hold anymore."

"That's a nice way of saying I'm broken."

"You're not broken. You're hurt. There's a difference."

I wipe at my face with the sleeves of his cut. Probably ruining the leather. "What's the difference?"

"Hurt means healing is possible."

"What if I can't heal?"