He stumbles forward, boots scraping the canvas floor, and every nerve in me sparks like a live wire.
“Fuck, Butterfly…” His voice splinters, low and wrecked. His hand shoots out to steady himself on the edge of Mason’s cot, but his eyes never leave mine. Not once. “I’ve missed you.”
The words slam into me like a bullet I wasn’t ready for.
“Dax—”
He shakes his head, messy, reckless. His laugh is bitter, cracked wide open. “Don’t say my name like that. Christ, I can’t—” He drags a palm down his face, leaving streaks of dirt across his jaw. “You have no idea what you do to me. Every fucking day. Out there. In here. In my head. You’re everywhere.”
My throat tightens. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m honest,” he snaps back, stepping closer. His shoulders sway, his boots heavy, but his voice is sharp, brutal. “I’ve missed you so much it fucking eats me alive. You hear me? Eats me.”
I grip Mason’s chart just to keep my hands from shaking. “Stop?—”
“I can’t stop,” he growls, another step closer, another crack in my ribs. “I’ve tried. Whiskey. Smoke. Blood. War. Fucking war. Nothing works. I close my eyes and you’re still there. Syrup on your skin. Stars in your hair. My butterfly.”
God.
My whole body betrays me, leaning, aching, burning for him even as my brain screams don’t.
“Dax…” My voice trembles. “You don’t mean this. Not like this.”
He smirks, but it’s broken, jagged. His hand drags through his hair, tugging like he’s punishing himself. “I mean every fucking word. You think I don’t? You think I don’t replay that night under the stars until I can’t breathe? You think I don’t wake up choking on your name because I thought I’d never see you again?”
He takes another step.
Too close now.
Close enough I can smell the liquor on his breath, the smoke on his clothes, the desert baked into his skin.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he rasps, eyes dark, voice cracking. “Like you still want me. Like you still fucking care.”
My lips part, a soundless ache spilling out, because he’s right because I can’t hide it. I do still want him. Every broken, cruel, bastard part of him and he knows it.
His chest rises, falls. His jaw clenches. His voice drops to a whisper that cuts straight through me. “I’ve missed you, Butterfly. God, I’ve missed you.”
“You’re drunk,” I whisper, even though my voice doesn’t sound steady enough to convince anyone—not even me. “You’ll regret this in the morning, Dax. You’ll hate yourself. You’ll hate me.”
His laugh is sharp, jagged, carved out of glass. “Butterfly, I’ve hated myself since the day I first touched you. That hasn’t changed.”
I shake my head, desperate to hold ground. “Then stop this before you make it worse?—”
He moves before I finish, his hand shooting out, iron around my wrist. The chart clatters to the floor. He yanks me forward until I’m chest to chest with him, his breath hot, soaked inwhiskey, and his eyes—God, his eyes—icy and feverish at the same time.
“Worse?” His voice is a snarl, low and wrecked. “There’s nothing worse than this. Than knowing you’re here. Breathing the same air. Walking these halls. And not being mine.”
“Dax—”
“No.” His grip tightens, dragging me flush against him until I feel every hard, brutal inch of his body. His heart hammers against mine, ragged, uneven. “You think I’m scared of bullets? Of bombs? Of not making it back?” His mouth crashes to my ear, voice a whisper that tears me in half. “The only thing I’ve ever been fucking scared to lose is you.”
My throat locks.
“You’re the one thing I can’t outrun,” he continues, breath hot against my skin. “You’re under my nails, in my blood, stitched into every nightmare and every dream, and it terrifies me more than this war ever could.”
“Stop—please—” My protest dies when his forehead presses against mine, his lips hovering too close, his eyes burning into me like he’s searching for something to keep him alive.
“You think I don’t know I’m a bastard?” he rasps. “You think I don’t know I’ve torn you apart? I have, Butterfly. I fucking have. But I can’t—” His voice cracks, breaks in a way I’ve never heard. “I can’t lose you. Not again.”
