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40

“Emma,” he breaths sharply. Jake hauls me toward him, trying to wrap his arms around me, but I don’t like it. I’m in memory mode and men’s unwelcome touch firing through my brain. I don’t want him to see me cry over this, not over these memories and those men. Not over that shit or Ray Vanquis. My mind is a chaos of rage and trauma.

“Stop it … Stop it …” I’m resisting him, but he’s stronger and faster and I’m still drunk with slow reactions. The racking sobs making me weak and he’s determined to hold me.

“Shhh. Shhhh. Emma. Shhh.” He captures me, cradling my head against his cheek, even though I’m still fighting, but I’m losing. I don’t like the noises coming from deep within me, like I’m spiraling out of control. I hate this. I’m not weak. I’m not vulnerable. The wails don’t sound like they’re coming from me and I push his hands
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