He isn’t only referring to Hunter. He’s talking about my mom and sisters.
It’s always going to come back to this—him or my family.
TESSA
His touch is magical, easing the tension my body has been harboring, and his warning has a confounding sense of comfort and triumph coiling around me. A bit of a chill, too, but I dismiss that and bask in the warmth. He rinses my hair, dries his hands, and leaves while I finish washing. I’m completely speechless, far surpassing the post-migraine fog.
Two minutes later, music croons, and he reemerges, setting my tea on the side of the tub and presenting one of my drawings. “You’re so fucking talented. Do you sell these?”
Whiplash.
“Uh … I did … I do.” My brain is no longer functioning, so I finish off the lukewarm beverage. “Under a pseudonym. I started when I wasn’t working at La Lune Noire.”
His attention bounces between me and the sketch. “I thought you worked at a makeup store.”
Unfazed at this point, I close my eyes and relax into my neck pillow. “You could pretend you don’t know things.”
“I didn’t know you sold your art. You should do it for real, like as an illustrator or—”
“I am … kinda.” My heart pounds my sternum as a sneak a peek at him. “I do commissioned pieces for authors.”
“Spicy ones.” His smile bleeds through that reply. There might even be pride. And maybe sadness. “But you hide it from everyone.”
“So?”
He doesn’t answer. He disappears again, and I listen. To the music and packing and pans clattering from the kitchen. There’s a lump in my throat I can’t quite explain.
When I get out, he’s there. With a towel and my pajamas.
And inquiries that feel like too much.
“Who lets you break? You act so unshakable, and you’re always the one taking care of people. You don’t even do it with Mercy—”
“Don’t include Mercy in whatever this is.” I wrap the towel around me and amble back to my room. “She loves me for me.”
“She does. Fiercely,” he agrees while I dry myself off and comb my hair. “But you still don’t let yourself break with her. These lists aren’t the way to do it either.”
“What’s your point?” I bark, grabbing the camisole he’s holding for me and putting it on.
“I can be that for you,” he rasps, sucking all the oxygen out of my apartment.
If he wanted sex right now, even with my queasy stomach and foggy head, I could handle it, but this …
“Be what?” It’s barely a whisper.
“Your safe place.” He widens the elastic on a pair of pajama pants for me to step into them, and once I do, he pulls me against him and tips my chin. “Your armor. You can break with me.”
“What is this, Maddox? Is this some ploy to get me to cry? I haven’t had a hard life, I’m not lugging a lot of emotional baggage around, and I’m not a crier.”
“I don’t need your tears, Tess. Unless I’m fucking your throat. But I want the parts you keep locked away. Pain, disappointments, dreams. I’m not scared of your crazy, your darkness, or your demons. Mine are bigger, which makes them a perfect shelter for yours. You’re gonna have to start fucking trusting me though.”
My chest heaves against him, my throat uncomfortably tight with emotion. “In the spirit of being transparent, I’ll tell you that I trust you more than most people. But I’m notthereyet.”
“Why?” he presses, palming my wet mop of hair.
“Because”—I squirm away, moving to my bed and taking a seat—“you made a hell of a lot more sense when I knew what the expectations were. But you’ve got me all twisted up. You haven’t even touched me. What is this?”
“The only thing I want in return isyou, exactly how you are. That’s why you’re all twisted up. It’s scary because, other than Mercy, that’s not what you’re used to. I intend to change that.”
