The switchblade snicked open before I registered reaching for it. Juliet recoiled, arms crossed over her chest.
“For the laces.” I knelt, slicing leather cords with surgical precision. Her breathing quickened when my fingers brushed an ankle bone sharper as I slid a boot from her foot.
The second boot thudded somewhere in the dark. She collapsed backward, one arm flung over her eyes. “Just go.”
I should’ve. Would’ve. If not for the quarter-moon marks peeking below her forearm.
When I returned with the glass of water, she’d twisted herself in the sheets—tank top rucked to reveal that damned scar.
“Drink.”
She turned her face away.
I gripped her chin, gentler than my wolf wanted. “Don’t make me pour it down your—”
Her teeth sank into my thumb.
“Christ, woman!” The glass shattered against the hardwoods. She lunged for the biggest shard.
We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths. Her back arched under me, wildcat fury burning through the liquor haze. “Get… off!”
“Stop. Fighting. Juliet!” I pinned her wrists, horror dawning as her struggles grew more frantic. Not anger—terror.
Submission came sudden and violent. Her body went slack, face turning aside to expose the unmarked cheek. Waiting.
Ice flooded my veins. Slowly—hands raised—I rolled off. “Juliet…”
“Don’t call me that!” She scrambled backward until she was sitting against the wall. “He… when I wouldn’t…”
The confession hung in sour air. I ground my molars until enamel threatened to crack. “Never laid hands on a woman. Never will.”
Her laugh shredded what remained of my control. “No? What do you call tonight?”
“Tonight…” I stood, towering over her cowered form. “I was just trying to keep you from harming yourself and failing spectacularly.”
The bathroom light revealed what I’d expect. A neat basket of toothpaste and face wash and other toiletries sat on the counter. Another with rolled towels and washcloths expertly placed in a row sat next to the tub. I soaked a fluffy hand towel in cool water.
She didn’t resist when I cleaned the puke from her chin. Didn’t react when I pried the glass shard from her bloodied palm. Just stared through me with those, now I knew were Bettencourt eyes—amber flecks set in espresso.
“Bed,” I ordered when the clock ticked past three. She crawled atop the mess of covers without argument. Robotically,she lifted her arms as I peeled off the sweat-stained tank. I averted my eyes from the lace bralette. The hints of scars showed across her ribs. Failed.
Covering her felt like burying a Stradivarius in mud. I slipped an oversized tee over her head then helped her out of her jeans. I lingered to ensure she didn’t choke on her own vomit, counting each shallow breath. Her hair fanned across the pillowcase—a golden halo.
“Stay.” Her whisper stopped me as I stood.
I looked back at her. “Can’t.”
“Why?”
The truth perched on my tongue, feathered and lethal.Because if I touch you now, I’ll break my oath. Because you taste like forever, and I stopped believing in that twenty years ago.
“Sleep it off, Juliet.”
Her fingers caught my belt loop as I turned to leave. The contact burned through denim. “Not done talking.”
The mattress creaked. I didn’t look. Couldn’t. Not when her voice had gone liquid and sharp all at once—vodka sincerity laced with lemon truth.
“You smell like…like leather and…” Her nose wrinkled against the stench of bile still clinging to us both. “And desert and engine oil.”
