Menacing power and out-of-bounds freedom.
There might be some blueberries and rain mixed in, but it’s only because we’re escaping through those fields, dashing hand in hand as the angry sky pelts out anguish, to seize what someone said we couldn’t.
A whimper leaks out of my throat, and he growls in agreement.
While his palm dictates the angle of my head, his other hand hitches my knee up over his hip, directing me. For all his objections, there is nothing wishy-washy about this tethering. If he had any hope of me darting for the hills due to his warning, it’s smothered by his all-consuming devouring. I want to live inside his thick arms for the rest of my days.
He flips us so that his chest pins me to the bed and every hard inch of his body molds to mine. Shouting intentions far louder than any words he’s spoken. There’s no mistaking his desire. Or mine.
This is a lifetime of cravings in a single sloppy kiss. The kind that surpasses what your taste buds thought was achievable. A crippling, eyes-rolling-into-the-back-of-your-head delicacy.
Nectar of the freaking gods.
“Jesus, you’re perfect. So fucking perfect,” he murmurs with the slightest quaver to his smooth timbre.
His lips coast over my jaw and neck with panting breaths as I purr in encouragement, scratching my nails over the taut muscles of his back. But when his eyes latch on to mine, it’s evident he’s come to a decision.
“I can’t bear to hurt you, Rena, so I need you to keep being patient. You deserve to be savored. Worshipped. Protected. I shouldn’t be … Let me figure this out. Get my head straight.”
“Aye, aye, sailor. That kiss will tide me over,” I whisper as though I’m not wrecked by the thought of him retreating.
“Good,” he breathes, dusting some hair off my forehead and peering down at me in utter adoration. “I’m gonna hold you tonight, okay.”
He wants to hold me.
Even though it’s more of a statement than a question, I nod, my heart inflating dangerously for this man who is intent on playing tug-of-war with it. Not because he’s cruel, but because he’s haunted. Like his cautionary fragrance, I missed it all these years. Bits and pieces poked through, but he was so skilled at concealing them. Not so much here in the dark.
None of that frightens me though—not his confusion or his demons or his clandestine corruption or even the realization that he may still reject me. Somehow, I know he’s mine. Not because he claimed me with that bone-shattering kiss. But because Tytan Reynolds has always been mine. He just needs to accept it.
TY
I’m coasting through my senior year. Everything has gone as planned. Today, Coach informed me Vanderbilt is going to offer me a spot. That’s been my top pick. I’ve already had offers from Arkansas and Mississippi State. Florida’s still a possibility. I’m overwhelmed with choices at this point. I should be on top of the world.
But today has been the worst day of my life. Worse than when my dad died in a car accident. I was too young to be disillusioned then. Too young to grasp the cruelty of it. To understand the ramifications that a single second can inflict on all your days to come.
My stomach is lodged in my throat, sick about what Steve admitted when I confronted him this morning. I wanted to kill him. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone. But as the words fell from his mouth, I could have ended him. With my bare hands. Squeezing the evil breath from his lungs. The visual was palpable. And it wasn’t the only one. The knife block. The extension cord. Everything felt like an instrument to dispense my rage for what he’d been doing to my sisters.
He cried, apologizing and promising he’d confessto my mother and leave to get help. I may not have harmed him, but I can’t find it in me to sympathize with him. I want my mom to have the chance to show her daughters she’ll protect them. She deserves that. And they need it. I hope she’s already turned the fucker over to the police.
If not, I’ll take my sisters away until I know they’re safe. I’ll be eighteen in three months. I’ll figure it out. Coach might help us.
I don’t know why my mind always jumps to the worst. Of course Mom will protect them. She loves him, but not more than us. They’ve only been married two years. She won’t choose him.
The leaves crunch beneath my feet, crackling as I stomp up the walkway, dreading the drama. The pain. I know Ella and Audrey will be embarrassed, ashamed. They must feel so scared and lonely. My gut flips again, bottoming out and clambering back to my throat.
Why didn’t I see it sooner? How did I not notice? I wish they had felt comfortable talking to me. Will they ever be okay?
A squeak slices through me as I wrench open the screen door. I’ve been meaning to oil that. I told Mom I’d get to it, but it keeps slipping my mind. Dropping my backpack on the entryway bench, I trek through the hallway. The house feels still and oppressive. Not quite right. The setting sunlight trickles in, dancing in the floating dust like a dare. A beckoning. My steps slow, as if I were trudging through snow, and as I round the corner, the living room topples. The rancid stench of smoke and cabbage and rotten eggs nearly makes me retch.
My brain short-circuits. Nothing makes sense.
Bloody brown hair. Audrey.
What the fuck?
I stumble forward, dizzy from the smell and the scene unfolding before me.
Four bodies. Coal eyes. A gun. And blood. So much fucking blood. The gray carpet is crimson. So is her skin.
