His fingers gripped at James’s waist. “Tell me you don’t hate me.” “I don’t hate you.” Another shudder. His fingers gripped tighter. “I should have told you.” The words were tumbling out. “I should have—I was afraid; I thought if I told you that you’d kill me, or try to. I thought that you’d—tell me again.” “I don’t hate you.” The words touched something deep inside him, a place that had never known acceptance. That had been braced, waiting for the blow not just since Bowhill. All these years. Even as a child . . . his mother had . . . because she had been afraid. He hadn’t meant to make her
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