And the air begins to heat.
I stand frozen in the center of the bedroom, bathed in sounds. I pick them out one by one and savor them each in turn. Bastian’s labored breathing, rough and shallow from the wound in his gut. The creak of floorboards as he shuffles toward me. The distant babble of a TV in the living room. The sigh of fabric.
Wintergreen grows stronger as he comes closer. Closer. Closer. When he stops, he’s inches away. I shiver at the onslaught of heat, then sigh and relax into it. His breath stirs the fine hairs at my temple. My pulse pounds in my throat, my wrists, between my legs.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
Bastian’s fingers find my chin first. He tilts my face up gently and my breath stutters. His other hand settles on my hip, anchoring me in place as he leans down and brushes his lips against the corner of my eye where tears have dried.
Each touch is a question.
Is this okay?
Can I have this?
Will you let me in?
I answer by gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him closer.
His wound must be screaming at him, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slides from my hip to the small of my back,pressing me flush against him until there’s no space left between us.
“Eliana,” he breathes against my skin. He says my name like he’s tasting every syllable and finding each one more delicious than the last.
“I’m here,” I whisper back. “I’m not running anymore.”
His forehead drops to mine. I feel the tremor that moves through him. It matches the one rumbling through me.
I begin unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric parts one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of the thick bandages wrapped around his torso. My hands freeze and I start to wonder if I’m being greedy. Is this wrong of me? Should I stop?
Like he can hear me questioning everything, Bastian covers my hands with his own and presses them flat against the bandages anyway. I feel the ridge of medical tape beneath my palms, the warmth of his skin above and below the wrapping. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong under my fingertips.
“I’m not fragile,” he tells me.
My thighs clench involuntarily at that masculine, rasping baritone. “You got shot,” I remind him.
“And I’m still standing.” He chuckles. “Tell Aleksei to aim better next time.”
“There can’tbea next time, you big, dumb brute,” I snap through sudden tears. “I don’t think I can do this again.”
“You won’t have to. I’m here. I’m fuckinghere, Eliana. I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod, swallow, and push the shirt off his shoulders. The fabric whispers down his arms and pools at our feet.
Then I start to map him.
My fingertips trace the planes of his chest first, following the architecture of muscle and bone that I once took for granted when I could see. The scars and bandages make my heart twinge in sympathy. I can’t feel the tattoos, but I know they’re there, and those make my heart ache in a different sort of way. But even though he’s been hurt and he’s done plenty of hurting, a thousand times over to a thousand faceless victims—and tome, too, if we’re doing a full census of Bastian Hale’s damage—I wouldn’t take that pain away from him even if I could, because it made him who he is and it brought him here to me. I have to be grateful for that. I don’t really have any other choice.
When I reach the edge of the bandages, I detour around them carefully. My palms skate over his ribs and continue to his back. The muscles there are knotted with tension. I massage my fingers into them as I huddle against him.
His breath whispers across my forehead. “Eliana,” he sighs again.
His hands find the hem of my sweater. He pauses there, knuckles brushing the bare skin of my waist, silently asking permission.
I lift my arms in response.
He peels the sweater over my head slowly, leaving goosebumps in his wake. The cool air hits my skin first, prickling across my shoulders and chest. Then comes the warmth of his palms smoothing over my belly—rounder now, undeniably changed from the flat plane he knew before.
