Free STRIPPED 2 (A Ferro Family Novel) by H.M. Ward Page A

into a place where no one can hurt them again, but that place prevents them from feeling anything at all. Numbness swallows them whole, and it sounds like a lonely life.
    The guys who love women like that sound like martyrs. They give up all physical contact, sleeping in different beds, even different rooms. They live next to her never touching her. Some of their stories get better. Over time, some couples build healthy physical relationships. I find comfort in those endings. But there’s something worse. Depression can take over and walk her off a bridge.
    It kills me, but I keep reading. It's the same story over and over again. An asshole mistreats a woman for so long she stops fighting. Even if she wants to break free of him, he won't let her go. She accepts her fate. His abuse never ends, until one day she has an opportunity to leave. She takes it, manages to find real love, but she can't forget the abuse, can't believe she didn't deserve it. Suicide pops up over and over again. In the end, the good guy, the guy fighting daily to prove his love earns nothing but gut-wrenching loss.
    All his sacrifice is pointless.
    Nothing can heal her.
    I don’t know how far gone Cassie is. I don’t know what he did to her, if every aspect of physical contact is ruined, or if it’s only sex. I think I could live without it, pretend it isn't important. Dozens of other men said the same thing online. They gave up everything, and a lucky few got the girl back. There are always demons in tow, but everyone has baggage.
    My past also lingers in the shadows, tainting my present.
    I glance at the picture on the wall. If she bought that, there’s got to be some hope floating around inside of her. That picture is Cassie’s glitter tape, her milk. She pads out every morning and sits on the couch, staring at it while she drinks her coffee. It’s a small thing, but I’ll take any flicker of hope that I can get.
    I’m not the knight in shining armor. I’m not the hero who saves the girl. I’m the asshole who rips bodices and ravages wanton women. Sometimes I think fate played a cruel trick on me, putting us together. We don’t fit and never have. I thrive on sex, and she doesn’t want anything to do with it.
    Cassie yawns and walks out of the bedroom behind me. She wakes at the same time every day, no matter what. She clings to that schedule of hers like a life raft. In many ways, I guess it is. I feel like a dick for not seeing it sooner, how hard she clings to her life, trying to pull herself back up over the cliff. When you're hanging on by your fingernails, it’s not easy.
    She’s wearing a pajama set I gave her. I was going nuts sleeping near her in those threadbare shirts with nothing between me and her panties. This set is pink stripes with a pink patch on the boob. Her hair is tied into a ponytail on top of her head. She looks perfectly sleepy, still peaceful. Nightmares didn’t wake her today.
    Previously, she tried to hide them—and I let her. Then Mark stopped by the club and provided a face to the monsters again. It's easier to imagine what she sees while she's dreaming. I finally admitted I have dreams, too. I wasn’t lying. I don’t have to make shit up around her. I've kept that part of my life hidden from her, and mine was a different experience, but years later the ripples look the same. Nightmares, sweats, aversions to certain things…
    I hold a mug of black coffee up over my head so she can take it as she passes. She removes it from my hand, and I drop my arm as she sits next to me on the couch. Her bare knee is close enough to touch, but I don’t. She has to come to me—and it can’t be with a can-I-give-you-head request. It’s like starting over with a twitchy virgin, which is pretty much how she was when I met her. If we start over, it’ll be at the beginning.
    “Thank you.” Her voice is smooth, thick from slumber. She has a serene look on her face as she stares at the picture. It’s too small, too far