All I want is for her to see how she’s been with me far longer than she realizes, so I spell it all out. “But four years ago—that day when you were in the black shirt withboningand your pink-and-blonde curls framed your angel face—you gave me a gift. Even if it was out of reach and something I shouldn’t want, you were the first desire I’d had. The first craving. The first dream. Hope.”
My heartbeat steadies to a more comfortable rhythm as relief blooms through the confession. “I didn’t get it then. Not like I do now. I was just so grateful to yearn for something. To hunger for an outcome that wasn’t death. That was enough for a while. A glimpse of what life could be.”
Rising, I move toward her statuesque body, stationing myselfbetween her legs and gripping her trembling thighs. “But it wasn’t. I always wanted more—always hated myself for wanting more. It didn’t just feel like a line I shouldn’t cross. It was a glass wall, dangling the beauty I could see, but never touch, right in front of me. Another element of torture. And I know how fucking selfish it is. You deserve so much more. So, maybe this makes me a monster, but I think, eventually, I was going to make you mine one way or another because you are my sanctuary.”
A choppy exhale tumbles past her lips, cascading in unison with another drop of her pain. “I don’t know how I feel about that … The way you’ve been tormenting yourself wrecks me. I’m so glad that you trust me with this, that I gave you hope. I want to be that for you, but what if I’m not enough to be your healing? And is that really why you married me? Because if you hadn’t messed up, I don’t think we’d be wed right now.”
Addressing only the former part of that inquiry, I squeeze her legs in reassurance. “I’m not expecting you to heal me. I told you I wouldn’t put that on you.”
“So, what are you expecting?” she returns, wiping her wet, streaked cheeks.
I tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear, grazing my knuckles down her neck, over her battering pulse. “To take care of you. To steal a sliver of happiness. To spoil my wife.”
“Ty, I just … it still feels like this was a mistake.” She lowers her chin, her focal point somewhere behind me on the bare laundry room wall as she sniffs. “I don’t want to be someone’s mistake—certainly not yours. This marriage was rash and a means to fix something. I get it. I’m not mad. And I’m not walking away from you completely, but I think maybe …”
“Rena, look at me.” I hook my fingers around her jaw and bring her eyes back to me. “You are the furthest thing from a mistake. You’re a miracle. It’s not about healing me. It’s that you’ve gifted me a new vision.”
A boulder of grief balls in my throat because I don’t know howto convey what she does for me simply by existing, how she crashes through the prison walls I’ve been encased in. How she’s always been my strong tower, my fortress, my true north.
My chest rattles as I attempt to get this out. “I might never stop seeing their dead eyes or feeling those fucking leaves crunch under my feet or hearing that goddamn squeaky door, but your light is bright enough to blur the pain.” I choke back the sorrow and cling to my resolution. “So, yeah, I took you, protected you, made you mine because that’s what you do with a precious treasure.”
“God”—she hangs her head on a puffed breath—“you really say all the right things, which is how I got into this mess with you in the first place.”
“So, believe me and stay,” I plead even though I have no intention of letting her go. I want her to fight for us. Admitting that all out loud was like a scorching shot in the arm, igniting every ember I’d ever felt for her. Everything I’d attempted to extinguish all these years.
“And if I do, what does that look like to you?” She’s so serious, so composed with that question that I feel a sense of pride ballooning in my chest. Maybe that’s weird. But she’s not always two speeds—impulsivity or denial. She can slow down and work through things. She just doesn’t trust herself.
But aside from pride, I’m harboring a host of other feelings because the swell of her breasts is peeking out of her bikini top, jiggling with the thrum of the washer beneath her. Those porn-star nipples with the bars that she boasts about are boldly lurching through the fabric. Goose bumps litter her tanned skin, and her breaths are shallow.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
And mine.
Whether she sees it or not.
“For starters”—I keep my features stony, battle ready, as though I’m about to drop a bomb—“your stay will begin with me fucking you on this washer.”
She bursts out laughing—the sweetest sound in existence—her gaze flitting down to note the motion of the machine and the fact that she’s at the ideal height. “It’s good to see you prioritizing, sailor.”
“There’s my fucking girl.” I cradle her face and nip at the corner of her grin as my fingers journey into the leg hole of her jean shorts. “Don’t leave me.”
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, collecting a salty droplet on the tip. She’s as wanton as I am, but she’s steadfast in her resolve to think straight. “I can’t promise forever right now. I don’t want to be the blind, impulsive girl Ryker’s claiming I am. What about the burn you kept mentioning? What does that look like?”
I ignore her lack of commitment, confident in my ability to persuade her otherwise, and field the more troubling inquiry. “Yeah. That’s still going to happen. I can’t prevent it, but I’ll keep you safe through it.”
She inhales a considering breath. “When?”
“Three to four weeks from now,” I provide, hoping that eases her distress. It will give us the time to solidify who we are before KORT does everything in their power to tear us apart.
Her fingers dip under the hem of my shirt, perusing my abs. “And where will we stay until then?”
Since she seems amenable, I shift her bikini bottoms to the side and swipe my fingers through her arousal, feathering over her clit until her eyes glaze over.
“Always so fucking wet for me,” I praise but manage to refocus while curling one finger inside her. “I think we should stay here. Let your brothers go home. Give us some space.”
She purrs a wispy echo of contentment and bites her lip as her knees grip on to my hips. “And what does the burn entail?”
With my free hand, I palm her head, rasping against her mouth and thrusting a second digit inside her. “I don’t know, baby girl.”
