Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(75)
Author: Beth Kery

Her light rap struck him like a death knell.

He opened the door. A strange, unpleasant tingling sensation coursed over his skin when he saw her standing in the hallway. She wore a pair of jeans and a light blue cotton button-down blouse that emphasized her narrow waist and full breasts. Her rose-gold hair spilled down around her shoulders and arms, but she’d pulled it back in the front, letting him plainly see the poignant expression of fear and resolve on her lovely face.

She knew.

His suspicion was confirmed when she stepped into the room and he closed the door. She said nothing when she saw his suitcase and briefcase sitting at the foot of the bed. For a moment, neither of them spoke while she stared at his packed bags. She finally looked at him. What he saw in her dark brown eyes cut at him from the inside out.

“This morning before he left, Lucien told me what he’d told you about his mother and yours,” she said.

“So that’s why you’re not surprised that I’m going,” he said.

“I suppose. That, and also James came into the reception room a while ago.”

“Grandfather told you I was leaving Belford?” Ian asked, surprised. He thought his grandfather would give him a chance to speak to Francesca first and break the news himself.

“No. He didn’t have to,” she said quietly. “He said that Markov had called, and that all indications were that Stern and Brodsik were working alone. With them both gone, so is the threat. You didn’t have a reason to be here anymore.” Her chin went up. He was glad to see the flash of defiance and anger in her eyes. He’d much rather see that than her sadness. “You did tell me it was the only reason you returned to Belford, after all. Because you were concerned about my safety.”

“I came because I love you,” he said roughly. “I’d understand if you have trouble believing that, given the—”

“I believe it,” she interrupted starkly. He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed. She studied the carpet for a moment, breathing through her nose, and he knew she was trying to steady herself. The desire to take her into his arms and soothe her was like a lance in his side, but he forced himself to ignore the instinct. The pain. It would just make things worse for her when he went. Worse for both of them.

And he must go. He must.

“After I spoke to Lucien,” she said in a congested voice, “I did a little research online.”

“About what?” Ian asked, wary. She hadn’t started researching Trevor Gaines, had she?

“About children of rape.”

Her simple reply made him blink.

“What about them?” he asked uncomfortably.

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and looked away. “I know that to have substantial evidence that Helen was, in fact, raped must have been overwhelming for you.”

“You and I both know I always suspected it, especially after learning about Gaines.”

“Yes. But suspecting and knowing are two different things, aren’t they?” she asked hollowly. He didn’t reply. He was too busy experiencing the truth of her words. Confirmation that his mother had been raped had rattled him to the core—the description of how Fatima had discovered her, so vulnerable and hurt. “I don’t know why I haven’t tried to understand better,” Francesca was saying. “Or I do understand, and just don’t like to admit it.”

“What are you talking about?” Ian asked her, bewildered.

“As I read some of those articles about other people who were the children of rape, some of their testimonials about what they’d endured as children and adults and how it had affected them, I realized that I’ve been the one who has been in denial.” She met his stare. Her eyes glistened with tears, but her face remained defiant, seeming to blaze with something he didn’t understand. “I wanted you to return to being the man I remembered, the lover I remembered. I didn’t want to admit that the knowledge of Trevor Gaines had altered you. I didn’t want to admit it, because to do so would mean that I was entirely helpless. To do so would mean I might have to turn you loose and let go forever.”

“I don’t want this to be forever,” he grated out. “I want to find my way back to you.”

“I know. I said I knew before—while we were in the cottage—but I really didn’t,” she said with a brittle laugh. Her arms tightened around her ribs as if she were trying to brace herself. “I think one of my problems is that you always seem so strong. So impenetrable. All those people I read about online—the ones who’d also been born of rape—talked about how it affected their self-esteem. They felt so ashamed, and worthless, even though logically they knew they hadn’t done anything. So many of them wrote about what it was like when they realized—really got it—what it’d meant for their mother to bear them . . . raise them . . . the child of the man who had raped them.”

Her shining eyes were like dark mirrors.

“It’s hard to explain,” he muttered after a moment. “Sometimes I used to think Lucien understood, but now I know even he . . .”

He faded off. Lucien, at least, was now secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t a result of depraved, selfish violence. Yes, what Gaines had done to Lucien’s mother was sick and unforgivable, of course, but this was . . . different. Ian knew most people would consider the child born of rape a monster, a vicious, cruel reminder to the victimized woman of what she’d endured.

Francesca nodded as if in understanding, even though he hadn’t finished his thought. “And your mother couldn’t come to terms with it like other women might.” Ian closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale as Francesca put that horrible truth to words for him. His mother had had even less of a chance to psychologically cope with the rape and heal. When her psychosis was at its worst, she couldn’t differentiate present day reality from horrific memory. She couldn’t help it.

At times, Ian and Gaines had become one and the same for her.

He felt Francesca’s hand on his upper arm and he resisted an urge to flinch. Her touch was almost unbearable, it was so sweet.

“When your mother was herself, though, Ian,” she said in a quiet voice that vibrated with emotion, “when she wasn’t being ruled by her illness, she did love you. So much. You have told me so many times how she loved and prized you. ‘She was the sweetest, kindest, most loving mother in the world.’ That’s what you’ve told me. That’s who she really was. That’s who you really are, the person who deserved her love.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “The man who deserves mine.”