Suddenly, I’m not just pacing; I’m rushing around, cleaning up stray clothes, scattered documents, and all my tea mugs that tend to inhabit most surfaces because I always grab a new one instead of reusing them. Then I’m on the kitchen floor after bumping my head into a cabinet door, trying to stave off a new well of tears.
“Shit,” I mutter, wiping my fingers under my eyes, trying to breathe through the tightening sensation in my throat.
Glancing down at myself, I remember that I’m in my pajamas. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I rush to my bedroom. But just as I grab the closet door, the doorbell rings.
A slow panic grabs hold of me. I look around as if I could find a wand that would magically tidy up the place and myself with one quick flick. But no such thing exists.
The doorbell rings again, and then I’m rushing toward the entryway—without having changed.
Instead of pressing the intercom button to check who it is, I just press the key button. Then I crack the door open and run back to my bedroom. I don’t know why. I’m so flustered I can’t figure out how to act. So I hide—as if that would make him leave.
My heart starts hammering when the door opens and feet enter. I press my back against the wall and close my eyes. I should go out and greet him—or whatever I’m supposed to do when I can’t speak to him. But the tears are pressing again. I fear they’ll break free any second. So I stall to get them under control.
The door closes, and steps resound through the living room. Firm thuds of military boots. The image of Ulf flashes through my brain: a charcoal button-up shirt, black jeans, and military boots. Rolled-up sleeves baring the rune symbols inked into the skin on his arms. The long braid of his beard and the braided trail of hair gathered in a high ponytail.
A stab of longing makes me drop my head back against the wall.
The steps close in and cross the threshold. I feel his power like a wild gust of air through the room. It freezes me in place. I feel him come closer. I clutch my hands against my chest and start panting.
I gasp when warm, calloused hands cup my face.
“Look at me, Elina.”
A whimper forms high in my throat, and I give a small shake of my head.I can’t.
He leans in and presses an achingly tender kiss to my forehead—the only way I felt him for months. Hovering his lips against my skin, he says, “Look at me, pretty deer.” He reaches down and untangles my hands from each other, enclosing them in his big ones and resting them on my chest. “Look at me.”
Finally, I obey. My nostrils flare with wild breaths as I peel my eyes open. And then the world starts spinning as I crash into the mighty, mesmerizing stare of Ulf. The spinning goes faster and faster, yet I’m not spinning. I’m in the eye of the storm. Steady among the chaos.
It’s too much. It’s too close. Too confusing. I bite my lips and blink to rid my eyes of more stray tears.
“Good girl,” he praises.
I don’t know what it is about those two words. They’re soft and approving, yet firm and assertive. They make me crumble a little more. A tear slips from my eyes. One more follows down the other cheek.
Slowly, Ulf leans in, and I stop breathing altogether when he kisses one tear away, then the other.
I start shaking from the effort of holding the dam intact, and it only gets worse when Ulf guides me to sit on the edge of the bed beside him and starts caressing my back—long, firm strokes gliding up and down along my spine.
I sniffle, and my breaths stutter as I hover right at the edge of a breakdown.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper, hating he’s seeing me this pathetic. Remembering I’m not supposed to talk to him, I press a hand to my mouth and squash the urge to apologize again.
“For what?” he asks, lifting his hand to stroke the back of my head.
Perplexed, I watch him, not daring to speak again.
He turns his hand to trail his knuckles down the side of my face. “You may speak to explain.”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the closeness. He’s been so far away for so long. I’ve dreamed of being close to him. But sometimes, when dreams come true, it’s too much. “For nearly crying,” I whisper.
His voice firms as he places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t ever apologize for your tears. Be strong and brave and give them to me.”
I do not feel strong or brave. I feel shaken and unraveling. But when he turns my head, pressing his warm palm to my cheek, and watches me with full earnestness, I don’t feel weak or broken. I feel seen. Important. And maybe I even feel a flicker of that courage that he seems to will into me with the sheer force of his gaze.
“Be strong and brave, Elina,” he insists. “Let me have it all.”
Part of me wants to shake my head, curl in on myself, and protect my heart. But this man tears straight through my shields. The strength in his gaze makes me believe everything will be okay—that he’ll hold me steady through the raging storm.
