“Good morning.” My voice is gruff, not at all smooth and hypnotic, like Hendrix’s or Nolan’s when they speak to or about their women.
Lake doesn’t care, though.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” She sits, grabs her coffee, and takes a sip before investigating her breakfast as I get syrup from the fridge. “Is everyone mad at me?” she whispers, the hurt and concern evident.
“No, not mad. Worried.” After pouring my coffee, I move around the counter to sit next to her. “Ariel has everyone handled.” She nods, but it doesn’t seem to penetrate. “Lake.” I need her to focus, so my tone is sterner than usual.
“I know.” Her voice trembles, and she drops her head.
I grip her chin, coaxing her to look at me. “You don’t know.” Tears well, and I force myself not to cave in to comforting her. “I need you to understand. Putting yourself before anything or anyone else is perfectly acceptable.” Her eyes widen in shock. “You’ve spent years walking on eggshells because you don’t want to or can’t talk about what happened to you.” She tries to hide, but I don’t let her. “You shouldn’t have to do that. Not then, not now, not ever.” Have I ever spoken so much at once? I don’t think so.
“I don’t know what else to do.” The heartbreak softens my tone.
“Move in with me.” The words pop out without thinking, but I realize how much I want that. My entire life hinges on this woman. Having her live with me is the next natural step.
“What?” She nearly chokes, and I realize I’ll have to be direct and explain my desires, which holds its own set of complications and discomfort.
“Eat first, then we’ll talk.”
I really need a fucking fight right now.
CHAPTER 6
Lake
Saint is here.
He kissed me.
Now he’s telling me to move in with him.
That’s a lot for one morning. He spoke more in the twenty minutes it took me to eat than he has in his entire life. Saint has always been more grunts, groans, and growls than words. Not that I mind, I find the gruff sound of his voice soothing.
“You’re staring,” he comments from the woodpile next to the house as he chops logs. The loft fireplace is not gas, but wood-burning, so while I wasn’t cold last night because I had my own human furnace, I liked the ambiance of a fire.
“Sorry,” I whisper but don’t stop. He has on one of those tank tops men wear that shows off their sculpted arms as he chops away. The knowledge that Saint is a large man and experiencing it up close are two different things.
His muscles have muscles, and the lush hair under the shirt was soft and called to me as I fell back to sleep this morning. There is safety in his power, and peace in his strength when I want it. To so many people, Saint is terrifying, and he doesn’t receive the credit he deserves for being such a caring soul. He’s misunderstood in the worst ways.
“Didn’t say I minded.” His lustful, darkened eyes spear and hold me in their grip when I attempt to look away. Something has changed within him. There’s a heat in his gaze that wasn’t there previously. It feels like an offering, if only I were brave enough to reach for it and be willing to see where it leads.
Maybe if I weren’t so broken, I’d shoot for the stars with Saint. When I was younger, it was all I really wanted. To be his wife, carry his children, be a partner he could be proud of.
An easy silence surrounds us as he chops wood, while I stay on the porch, snug under an electric blanket, warm coffee in hand. The sharp rap of his chore, broken up by the sounds of nature settling after the heavy snowfall over the past 12 hours.
“You fell back asleep,” Saint says, eyes down and continuing his work. “You don’t usually.” I never have. Not once I’ve been awoken. I can’t. If I try, I feel their hands on my body, slick with sweat and sickness. “Talk to me, Lake.”
It’s the first time in years he’s asked me to tell him what happened. It’s also the first time it hasn’t felt like my heart and lungs were gripped in a vice, being slowly squeezed to suffocate me when someone’s asked.
At one time, summer camps had been my favorite thing. I found freedom in being away from my family, in meeting new people, and reacquainting myself with some I met before. Now, the memories are all tainted, and thinking about those years is god-awfully painful.
Opening up to Saint feels like slicing open those wounds again, but if I truly want to heal and want him to understand who I am now, he deserves the truth.
“It was so hot that summer. The humidity made my hair look like I’d stuck my fingers in a light socket. Everyone slept with their windows open, hoping to catch a breeze. We could hear the bugs buzzing, frogs jumping in the pond, and fish splashing around. Branches moved with the breeze, and leaves swayed.” Those noises I used to love now send a cold sweat down my spine.
“Sounds like home,” he says, followed by the loud thwack of a piece of wood splitting.
“I think that’s why I liked it so much. It reminded me of home but gave me some space.” Staring into the cooled-off coffee, it reminds me of that night—the dark sky blurred by tree branches in the middle of the forest. “I got thirsty. My throat was dry, and sweat poured from me in buckets. It was…itchy, you know?”
