Free Justice by Bailey Bradford Page B

of course.”
    “He told me we’re mates,” Paul blurted out.
    Vivian hummed and seemed to give the barest nod. “Yes, and that might be problematic. You told me in your last email what some of your perceived issues were.”
    “Perceived?” Paul repeated, feeling his eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “They aren’t perceived, they’re real. I mean, I’m not the brightest paint chip in the rainbow, but even I know that I had been taking risks that could have led to my death. Then there’s the whole thing where I have some fucked-up sexual hang-ups now and was just shoving my dick into any willing man I could find, as long as he’d let me have it my way. I didn’t even enjoy the sex!” he all but shouted, frustrated and wanting Justice despite everything colliding about in his head. “It was all about control!”
    “You hadn’t had any control over you or your body in over a year, Paul. I think reclaiming some of that control was necessary for your psyche, but the risk-taking, that is worrisome.” Vivian tapped a finger against her chin as she glanced out of the window. After a few seconds she looked at him again. “What do you think your reason for engaging in risky behaviour was?”
    What did he think it was? “Isn’t it your job to tell me?” God, he was being a bitch.
    Vivian didn’t seem the least bit fazed. “I firmly believe the most gripping, and lasting, revelations, come from the person seeking them.”
    “Well, fuck,” Paul huffed. He ran a hand over his short hair. It made him feel kind of nauseated to parse out the reasoning behind his actions, but it came down to one thing, didn’t it? “I guess I thought I was so fucked up, it didn’t matter if I died. That’d be easier than trying to fix myself and trying to overcome my past. I couldn’t just kill myself, though. Preston would have been devastated. If someone killed me, that’d be different. Easier, like he wouldn’t feel like he’d failed me.”
    “You honestly think he wouldn’t feel that way?”
    “No,” Paul answered unhesitatingly. “He’d have felt like shit regardless. I was being a coward. I was stupid. I just—it’s like something inside of me was broken. I don’t know if it can ever be pieced together again.”
    Paul pulled his legs up onto the couch and tucked his arms around his knees as he continued talking, the words just spilling out of him. “You have to understand, I was tortured, raped, treated like I was nothing. Oh, I was cared for, too, because no one wants a completely broken toy. I was patched up after they hurt me. I’d had more stitches than Frankenstein by the time I was rescued. The outside, though, that shit is healed. I can’t…” Paul’s chest tightened and his throat closed up. His next breath was a wheeze.
    “Paul, listen to me. Try to calm down. Whatever you’re thinking about, push past it and focus on something good, something that doesn’t frighten you. Take slow breaths, because the more you pant, the less you feel like you’re getting air. Breath e . ”
    Vivian’s words penetrated his building panic in fits and starts. Paul tried, letting go of his legs and bending. A hand on his back helped, pushing his head down between his knees.
    Paul drew in a deep breath even though his mind was racing, telling him he wasn’t getting air. Images tangled in his mind, teeth and claws, cocks and pain.
    Then something else penetrated his nightmarish memories. It started as a remembered touch, someone who wanted only to comfort him, not hurt him. Other things were added—a deep, soothing voice, the scent of woods and sage, eyes that looked upon him with kindness, not pity or hatred.
    He wanted Justice there. Paul dragged in another breath, dizzy from the panic attack that had slammed into him. Vivian was still talking in a low, soft voice, but Paul didn’t pay attention to the words. What he realised was that she had her hand on his back, and it felt so good to have someone touch him