Wrath (Sinful Secrets, #4)

by Ella James

He’s the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen in real life, and I hate it.

Everything started in a bus, didn’t it? Buses ruined my life and then this bus drove me up here where I’m supposed to fix it.

“Never jump,” I whisper. “Never fall.” His lips brush my back. He hugs me tight, wrapping himself around me. “You gotta be careful, Millsy. Don’t come here without me.”

And then he steps in closer, wraps a hand around the back of my head, and kisses me so hard and deep I nearly slide to the ground.

I want to ask who hurt him. Why, and how? And where can I find the motherfucker? But I don’t let myself. Not now.

I’m holding Ezra Masters. My stepbrother. The most infuriating guy I’ve ever met. The smirkiest and the cockiest and by far the most confusing. The most gorgeous…and I think maybe the most broken. I’ve got him, safe with me. And I don’t ever want to let him go.

I wake up with Ezra wrapped around me like some kind of insane starfish. He’s behind me—he’s spooning me now—with one arm around my shoulders, one hand clutching the waistline of my boxer briefs, and one of his warm legs pushed between mine, like he wants to be sure we’re joined from head to toe.

“Look at me, Ez. Look at my face.” He shuts his eyes. “Tell me this much: Who fucked up before me? Who fucked around with you and made you feel like loving you was hard work?”

“Let me be your—I don’t know. Your bungee cord.”

“There are disabled people who cope better than me. Is that what you want?” His eyes flit to mine. “Someone with a disability? Who can’t sleep through the night? Sometimes can’t eat or…be places? Is that really what you want?”

“Let me tell you something that’ll shock you, Ezra. For one—” I laugh. “I’m disabled. Epilepsy is a disability. Keeps people from driving. Gives people seizures. Mandatory medication. Hospital. You’re looking at someone with a disability. When I was sick, you took care of me. If you’re sick, nothing feels good; you’re in pain. And you’re saying I can make you feel better? I’d do that all damn day. All night, too. I’ll suck your dick ten times a day if you want. If I can cure depression for you with a blow job, sign me the fuck up, baby. You got nightmares but I make them better? I’ll be your drug. You think helping you feel good could ever be a burden to me?”

“You’re my guy now. I’ve got you.”

“Maybe we should try it again. Just for practice. I’ll go first.” He looks into my eyes. Then he squeezes my hand again. “I love you.” I rasp, “I love you, DG.” “I love you more,” he says. “Well…you can’t.” I give him a big smirk that’s fighting to become a grin. “Because I love you more.”

Hi, no one’s held my hand since I was like six. No one’s touched me in a few years except nurses and a lot worse. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

“I only need one thing.” “What?” I force myself to whisper. His arm tightens on me, and I feel him inhale. He blows the breath out, and when he speaks, his voice is raspy. “Don’t leave me again.” I nod, and for a second I can’t find my voice. When I do, I sit up, so I can look at him when I promise, “I won’t.”

I just want to tell you that I’m happier than I deserve. And that I love him. I hope it will last.

As soon as I wrap him up, kiss his cheeks and whisper to him, his eyes open just a little, and his whole damn body sort of goes limp. “I’ve got you,” I whisper, and he says, “I know,” and wraps himself around me. Then he sleeps through the night.

Miller is so warm and solid. He won’t let me be locked up.

“Every single day you’re alive takes you further from that shit,”

Then tears start to streak down my cheeks, and it hits me, the real gut-punch: I could have come here. I went through all that shit when I could have simply moved in with Dad. I didn't know.

All I can think is that he isn't mine to keep. There’s no way to believe all this…mirage shit. Life’s not that good. I fight with myself in my head about it. Desperate to believe…but I can’t.

“I’m unequivocally against it, of course. Not only is it damaging—it’s abuse—but it’s ineffective, and most importantly, it goes against what I see as the will of God. Who makes no mistakes. There’s an anti-conversion therapy nonprofit called Born Perfect, and that’s what I would say about it. Every one of us is born perfect. Innocent like little Eden, my daughter. If something like that happened to you, it’s not your fault. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t needed, and it definitely wasn’t Christian.”

"I don't owe you anything." It's all that I can manage. Even as I say the words, I know I'll give him anything he asks for.

"Do you still love Icees?" "Did you give me Icees?" He smiles, small and smug and wistful with his sad eyes. "I gave you everything I thought you wanted.”

It’s not sad. I want to tell him it’s really not even that sad. It’s only awful in the way the world is. We all know how awful it is. People get raped every day, and it’s no big deal. No one ever pays the price except you. And you go on, because you have to go on. That’s the world that we have.

“I love you,” I say. “I’ve got you. You’re mine, and I’ve been waiting for you, so I can wrap you up and never let a damn thing ever hurt you again. Not without going through me first. I know you’re bigger, but I need to take care of you,” I whisper.

He lost his memories of us, but he still wants me…craves me. He knows I’m safe. Look how fast he found me, and he told me everything. "I don't really know you. But I feel like I can't live without you." I love that. I need it. If he can’t remember, I can adjust; it’s okay as long as I feel like he loves me.

“My Miller,” he whispers. “Is that okay?” His face sobers, and he looks worried. “Is this too much? Too soon?” I shake my head. A choked laugh comes from my throat. “You’re a year late, angel.”

“Just thinking.” “Do you wanna tell me?” I can’t help smiling at the way he asks. “I don’t want to.” I laugh. “But I will.” “Why will you?” He asks it slowly. When I look up, he’s thoughtful. Maybe a little nervous. “I’ll tell you because you’re Ezra and I’m Josh. Like peanut butter and jelly. Or…I don’t know—popcorn and butter.”

“Thanks for finding me.” His voice is just a little hoarse. “I hope it’s worth it.”

“I don’t know how you’re so strong,” he whispers, as we both pant between going at it. I kiss him again, nice and deep, my dick throbbing in my pants. “I’m not. Just doing my best impression.”

"No. Not you, my angel. You should go to therapy and crawl in bed with me as many nights as you can. And eat good food and do things that you like, and live. Because that's what you deserve. You deserve to live and to be happy. Nothing that happened was your fault. Programs like Alton are fucked up, and what happened to you specifically? That guy went psycho. You were a victim. You were locked up, people hurt you.”

I kiss his lips, and as he steps inside, I think: If I lost my memory, I hope this would make it through.

Because if I'm going to stay with him—and I am—forever—then I have to be sure I put myself back together right. The arms in arm holes and the feet on the right sides. I have to become a whole fucking person. Not just for him, either. Also for me. I guess.

“You are…? I don’t think I got your name.” “Josh Miller,” I tell her. I’m surprised when Ezra’s eyes open. “My husband,” he says, the words only slightly slurred.