The ache of grief confuses me more than anything. He voices a few more vague warnings before sending us from the room, Falk trailing us out, Mary passing us with a mixture of anger and sadness in her gaze.
But I can’t process that. I’m stuck on a mess of emotions, on the idea of a daughter, and of my sperm donor killing her for no other reason than what she doesn’t have between her legs.
I don’t want a baby. I probably never will. Too many fucked-up things have happened to me to trust myself around any child. But the idea of my father taking my daughter away, of removing her from the world before she even announces that she’s here, it twists my barely hinged fury into a maelstrom.
Clara won’t get pregnant. I won’t let her.
But if the worst happens, and she does, there’s no way in hell I’m staying around for my father to abort my daughter.
We agreed to no more running. We agreed we were staying to fight.
But I just found the one thing that would force me to haul Clara off this battlefield.
And it scares me more than anything I’ve faced so far in my cursed existence.
The door locks behind us, the blues of the room faded as the trees outside shade it from the bright morning sun. Clara crosses to the window we stood by this morning, her arms wrapping tight around her middle, giving herself the hug that I can’t manage, my anger too close to the surface for anything so nurturing.
But like I’m on a leash, I trail behind, blocking her from whatever surveillance my father has put in the room. I force my jaw to unlock. “Are you okay?”
She shakes her head, her hair brushing against my chest. Then she turns, looking up at me, her dark eyes glassy, but a weary smile on her face.
When her hands bracket my jaw, I smother the urge to rub into her palms. “We’ve got this. It’ll work out,” she says.
She sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself than me, but I can’t blame her. Instead, I close my eyes, not wanting to watch her try to be brave on my behalf.
“I don’t want to do this,” I mutter, and her hands disappear from my skin, my eyes flicking open with the lack.
Her palms smooth down the front of the fussy navy and white dress I found for her in the closet, the fabric thick, the v neck cut so high as to not even be worth the effort. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, staring at her fingers as she tries to keep them still.
That barely curbed anger flares, and I step closer, crowding her against the window. “No. You don’t get to be sorry. None of this is your fault.”
I push too far, and she stumbles, gripping the front of my damn polo to keep herself upright, my hands locking onto her elbows, keeping her where she is. Her lips twist, and I can feel another apology trying to escape. It’s been one day in this house, and she’s already halfway back to the scared, broken girl she was a year ago. But she visibly swallows the apology down, tilting her chin up, searching my face.
"What do you want from me, Trips?”
I want everything. Every damn nook and cranny, every thought and dream, every inch of skin and every breath warm against my skin. But I know what I want more than anything from this woman in front of me. I take a risk, take what I’ve wanted so long it feels like a permanent part of me, an extra broken limb I’ve dragged behind me for nearly a year, and I slide my hands up her arms, palming the sides of her neck, her pulse fluttering under my touch, and press my lips to hers.
For once, I’m gentle, not trying to convince her of anything, to punish her for tempting me against my better judgment, for being exactly what I want and exactly what I can’t have. Instead, I kiss her like I should have that first time so long ago. Like she’s precious. Someone worth protecting, no matter the cost. Someone that sings to my heart, my mind, and my body in equal measure.
Her little fists tighten on my shirt, tugging me closer, and the other side of me seeps out, my mouth fighting for dominance, plundering, taking, not worried about the consequences or the dangers. And when I finally get myself under control enough to pull back, I don’t, not really.
My lips brush her ear as I deliver my answer, a truth straight from me to her. “I want your fury and your fear.”
She jerks back, trying to parse meaning from a simple statement. She’ll figure it out if I give her the time, but I don’t want to make her jump through hoops. Not right now. So I kiss her again, working up the courage to explain the rest.
Our tongues wrestle, my skin burning from such a simple act, but I need to say this first. Panting, I press my lips to the skin under her ear, the pulse there stronger, fast and stuttered. “I need your fury and fear, so mine finally aren’t alone.”
Chapter 52
Clara
His voice cracks, low and pained. And when I pull his face in front of me, I see his fury and fear. I see it, and both feelings balloon inside of me, matching his, needing them released from the cage I’ve kept them locked inside for so long. They grow so large, the bars bend, then break, shattering with nothing bigger than a pinch of pain near my heart.
I drag his shirt off him, fingers greedy as they trace over the tattoos on his chest, my rabid explosion of movement immediately halted when my touch dances over scattered scars, more than I can count, some clustered together, some crossing others, none visible with the way the smoke curves around them, but impossible to miss when touching him.
“Letter opener. It was his favorite for a while. From when I was about eleven to twelve.”
Agony nips at my ribs at the casual explanation. Pushing up on my tiptoes, I press first one kiss, then another against the raised marks, wishing I could make them all better, and knowing that I can’t. He lets me work my way across his skin, lowering the zipper of the dress I shoved myself into this morning, artificially cool air licking my spine.
