“Do you want me to take it out?”
He steps back just enough that cooler air hits my spine. His voice is gruff, but the way he’s still holding my hand contradicts every rough edge.
I know I should say yes, demand it. What kind of psycho wants a tracking device living under her skin?
Me, apparently. Or at least the version of me who panics in airports and can’t breathe in crowds and secretly needs a failsafe. The version that’s furious at him—and grateful to the point of shaking. The contradiction is exhausting.
I swallow hard and shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
His hand lingers at my back a moment, then slides down, steadying me like I’m about to tip over. I hug the robe tighter, heart pounding. It’s a physical thing, how much I hate and need what he’s given me. I want to yell at him, and I want him to never leave my side again. Maybe that’s what love is. Or codependency. Either way, I’m screwed.
“You sure?” he asks, low.
“No,” I whisper. And for a second I’m afraid I’ll fall apart all over again. But I don’t. I just stand there and let the silence bloom between us.
Finally, I turn to face him.
He holds my gaze, his expression careful. “I’m not sorry,” he says.
“I’d be surprised if you were.”
“I mean, I understand that I violated your trust. I understand that I crossed a line. I understand that what I did was fucked up.” His voice is rougher now, raw. “But swan, if something happened to you and I couldn’t find you—if you disappeared and I had no way to track you, no way to know if you were OK?—”
His voice cracks.
Actually cracks.
“I can’t,” he continues, and now there’s something broken in his eyes. “I can’t lose you. I know that’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t make it OK. But the alternative—not knowing where you are, not being able to find you if you need me—I can’t live with that. I’d rather you hate me and be alive than?—”
He stops, jaw tight, and I realize he’s fighting tears.
Bones. Who can break a man with his bare hands. Who never shows fear. Who has always shown up—every time, without fail and without question.
He’s coming apart in a shitty motel bathroom because the thought of losing me destroys him.
And I?—
I grab his face in both hands and pull him down to kiss me.
5
EMMA
He’s so tall that I have to go up on my toes even with him bending down, our lips pressing together so hard it almost hurts. I kiss him like I’m furious and like I’m starving, because I am a little of both, and he’s kissing me back the same way.
The towel slips, so does the robe, and suddenly his hands are on my waist, then my ass, then he’s hoisting me up by the back of my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me out of the bathroom and toward the bed.
The ceiling mirror reflects our bodies back at us—me naked and wet from the shower, him still fully clothed but soaked through from the storm. His shirt clings to his chest, water dripping from his hair onto my face as he lowers me to the mattress.
“Swan,” he murmurs against my lips, and I pull back just enough to breathe.
“I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.” His forehead rests against mine.
“And this doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know that too.”
