I stare at the handle, then say, “Is it the one who gave Eve that apple?”
He chuckles, placing it in my hand. “It’s a viper. A highly venomous snake. They are fast and mean and will kill anything that threatens them.” He smiles, and my insides grow warm. “Just like you.”
Chapter 40
Viper
WhatIremembermostabout my mother were her eyes. Clear blue and full of life. Everything else, the days before she died, my time at the boys home, I tossed aside, tucking the memories away, so I could move on. Forgetting the bad, pretending they didn’t exist, so that every day wasn’t a nightmare.
But the ones about her I gripped tightly. It was all I had left of her, of any good things before Headmistress and Fallon. Before Cook.
My mother loved music and singing. Art and dance. She’d drag me into little shops that smelled of dust and leather, showing me trinkets and pretty jewelry she found. She never bought anything. It took me years to realize it was because she traveled a lot. Being a prestigious ballet dancer meant she often performed in different countries and toured various cities for extended periods of time. This I know only because of the old newspaper clippings I found online about theOgnennyyBallet Company. I only remembered the name of the company becauseit meant fiery, and she always said she was a good fit because of her red hair.
Sometimes I’d travel with her. Mostly, I stayed behind, but those memories are shadowy. I vaguely remember gruff men laughing and giving me sips of drinks that burned my throat. They wore sharply cut suits, and there was always money and guns around. The dancers who didn’t travel took care of me, making me food and telling me stories before I fell asleep. I would watch them train, not understanding what I was seeing, but loved to watch them dance later at night.
Whenever I think of her, a deep ache settles in my bones. I have fragments of her and the shards of memories of my years before Saint Theresa that pop up are few and far between, but usually center on my mother. Her red hair, and blue eyes, and how pretty she looked on the stage. How her favorite saying was, “Whit's fur ye'll no go past ye.”
I wonder, if she were to see me now, if she knew all the cruel things in life that refused to pass me, if she’d still say that.
I learned early on that sometimes things aren’t meant for us, but find us anyway. Yet maybe she was right. If what was meant for me didn’t go past me. I just had to endure the path that led me here, so that what was meant for me finally found me.
And they did.
Or rather, we found them.
When she got sick, she went downhill fast. We left the dance company after she told me she needed to return home, and then we lived in a little cottage surrounded by bright green hills. One minute she was Mum, smiling and laughing. Next, I spent days with the old lady who lived next door, and she’d take me to the hospital to see my mother. The last time we did, Mum made me promise I would make my life mean something.That I would love with my whole heart, live fully, grasping every moment with no regrets. Be kind. Be generous.
Five-year-old me would have promised to go to the moon if it meant she would stay. But every promise I made, I failed to keep.
I wonder if she’s disappointed in me.
Maybe it’s not too late.
I press my nose into Cora’s hair, breathing in her scent tangled up with Breaker’s. Cedar and sex and that clean, floral scent that is so distinctly her, fills my lungs. It clings to the sheets, to my skin. I twist one of her little curls around my finger, bringing it to my nose, inhaling. She makes a small sound as I press my very hard cock to her ass.
“Leave her,” Breaker whispers. “Let her sleep.”
My eyes meet his over her wild hair. The corner of his lip curls before breaking into a heart-shattering smile. He doesn’t have to say it.
We’re in bed with her. She’s safe. She’s ours.
Pushing the blankets back, I reach across Cora and run my fingertips over his bare arm, tracing the black tribal tattoo up to his shoulder. Goosebumps break out along his arm. Something inside me melts even more, and I think maybe, just maybe, this is what it’s supposed to feel like. To accept love and give it back freely.
Bright. Full. So fucking calming.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispers, tossing the sheets back. His perfect abs flex as he untangles himself from Cora’s tiny sleeping form and stands. He grips his hard cock, gaze drifting over the two of us before he turns and walks toward the bathroom. Mine pulses as I watch his toned ass and defined back, and I debate waking her, but instead, slowly ease from the bed, and follow him into the ensuite.
The door clicks shut quietly behind me, and I lean my back against it, watching as he turns the shower on and steps under the spray. He’s so perfect. Defined muscles and dark skin. Even his feet are perfect, which is just an odd thought to have, but I don’t think there is a single flaw in him. Even the faint scar on his thigh from a bullet grazing him just adds to his appeal. Gives a slightly dangerous edge to his otherworldly beauty.
“I can feel your eyes on me,” he says, his face turned up toward the water, one arm propped on the black marble wall. “Stop staring and get over here.”
I push off the door and move toward him, my cock so hard that I grip the root as I step up behind him and rest my forehead on his back. He reaches behind him and trails a hand along my side. When his fingers grip my ass, I punch my hips forward, jabbing him in the ass crack with the head of my cock. My dick slips through the water-slicked heat, snatching a hiss from my lungs.
I glide my hands over him, feeling his shoulders, forearms. Letting my hands explore the taper of his waist, then the dimples above his firm ass. Then let them slide up his broad back and around to his chest. This permission to touch him has my heart racing. Maybe I’ve always had permission, but it felt too sinful. To touch him so freely. To really let myself feel this tenderness, this wanting ache that has lived in me for so long.
Last night we went further than we ever have, letting in emotions beyond the physical act. Right now, all those swirling emotions course through me, vibrant as summer heat. All the things we’ve never expressed. All the emotions we kept tightly wrapped up for no reason other than my refusal to explore everything we could be.
I spent so many years trying not to be everything I despised that I never gave myself the chance to see I was different. This love for him isn’t vile. I’ve always had it, and theintensity, and the way it felt, changed as we grew, and there was nothing bad about it. Wanting him doesn’t make me like the monsters of my past. Wanting to fuck and kiss and love the boy I protected isn’t shameful or something to hide.
