Emotional pain invades his perfect face, making his lips press together and his eyes snap shut again. ‘It’s not something I can help,’ he admits, letting his face drop into my lap. He’s hiding, ashamed of his confession. I know he takes leave of his senses, but he has to try to stop. I sever the contact of our hands and plunge my fingers into his wet hair, looking down at my touch massaging the back of his head. His palms sweep around to my bottom and cling on desperately, his face turning so his cheek is now resting on my thighs. I can see him staring blankly at nothing, and I transfer my caress to his cheek and gently trace the contours of his profile, hoping my touch will have the same effect as his does on me.
Peace.
Comfort.
Strength.
‘Everything I had as a child was taken from me,’ he whispers, stealing my breath with a hint of willingness to tell me of his childhood. ‘I didn’t have many possessions, but they were dear to me and they were mine. Just mine. But they were always taken from me. Nothing was precious.’
I smile wistfully. ‘You were an orphan.’ I state it as a fact, because Miller has just told me in his own little way. The photo doesn’t need to be mentioned.
He nods. ‘I was in a home for boys for as long as I can remember.’
‘What happened to your parents?’
He sighs, and I immediately fathom that this is something that he has never spoken of. ‘My mother was a young Irish girl who ran away from Belfast.’
‘Irish,’ I breathe, seeing Miller’s bright blues and dark hair for what they are – typically Irish.
‘Have you heard of the Magdalene Asylums?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I gasp, horrified. The Magdalene nuns were folk of the Catholic Church who claimed to be working for God to cleanse the young women who were unfortunate enough to fall into their clutches – or who were sent there by their ashamed relatives, often pregnant.
‘She escaped, apparently. She came to London to give birth to me, but my grandparents eventually tracked her down and took her back to Ireland.’
‘And you?’
‘They dumped me in an orphanage so they could return home, free of the disgrace. No one need know I existed. I’ve never been a people person, Olivia. I was a loner. I didn’t get along with others, and I spent a lot of time in a black cupboard as a result.’
My eyes widen in realisation. I’m disgusted, but most of all I’m sad. Especially since I can detect the shame he feels. He has nothing to be ashamed of. ‘They locked you in a cupboard?’
He nods lightly. ‘I didn’t mix well.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say on a guilty gush of air. He still doesn’t mix well, only with me.
‘Don’t be.’ He smooths his palms up my back. ‘You’re not the only one who was abandoned, Olivia. I know how it feels, and that is only a very small part of why I will never leave you. A very small part.’
‘And because I’m your possession,’ I remind him.
‘And because you are my possession. The most treasured possession I’ve ever owned,’ he confirms, lifting his head to find my dejected eyes. Everything was taken away from him. I get it. He smiles mildly at my sadness. ‘My sweet girl, don’t be sad for me.’
‘Why?’ Of course I will be sad for him. It’s an incredibly sad story, and just the beginning of Miller’s wretched life up to this point. It’s all disjointed – the orphan, the homeless man, and the escort. There are things that connect these stages of Miller’s life and I’m scared to death of hearing them. What he’s told me, both vocally and emotionally, has taken me to the front line of agony and sadness. What connects these dots may be an enlightenment that will break my fallen heart beyond repair.
Warmth slides across my wet back, onto my hips, and up my sides, until his grip is creeping onto my collarbones and he’s encasing my neck. ‘If my twenty-nine-year tale of misery has led me to you, then that makes every unbearable part of it worthwhile. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, Olivia Taylor.’ He dips and sweetly kisses my cheek. ‘Accept me as I am, sweet girl, because it’s so much better than what I was.’
The lump in my throat swells, making breathing too difficult. It’s too late. My heart is already broken, and so is Miller. ‘I love you,’ I utter pitifully. ‘I love you so much.’
The gaping hole in my chest rips even more when Miller’s unshaven chin quivers the tiniest bit. He shakes his head in wonder before rising to claim my whole body, pulling me into him and giving me the most fierce thing in the history of things. ‘I thank everything holy for that, and I’m not a religious man.’
Breathing into the wet hair sticking to his neck, I close my eyes and sink into the lean planes of his body, taking everything he has to give and returning it. My strength is restored, stronger than ever before, and determination is rushing violently through my bloodstream. He hasn’t agreed to seeing a therapist or a counsellor, but my widened knowledge of this confounding man and his confessions is the best start. Helping him, pulling him from his self-professed journey to hell will be easier now that I’m armed with the knowledge I need to understand him.
The interfering would seem inconsequential if it wasn’t for Miller’s extreme reaction to the interferers. He sees me as his possession, and he sees them as wanting to take me away from him. In an ideal world, all of the meddling idiots would disappear with a magic click of my fingers, but being as we don’t exist in a mystical realm, other options need to be explored. And the primary one is getting Miller’s temper under control, since it has become glaringly obvious that all of these meddling idiots are not only meddling, but persistent too. He’ll always see interference as people trying to take his possession – his most treasured possession. It’s natural for him to react this way.