Her free hand comes up to my chest, fingers tracing the ink there—my tattoos, the ones that tell our story. She traces her name over my heart as she's done a hundred times before.
But never like this. Never straddling me with her thighs spread over mine.
"You're tense," she murmurs.
No shit.
Moments like this, it would make perfect sense to just hold her tighter, to press my mouth to hers—but I've spent seventeen years learning how to bury that urge so deep it can't climb out. At least, not where she can see it.
Seventeen years of practice, and still every move she takes feels like theft of sanity for me. One day the urge might crawl out anyway—and God help us both when it does.
Because tonight, with her bare legs over mine and my heartbeat under her hand, I'm not sure how much deeper I can bury it.
She settles against me, head on my shoulder, cigarette burning down between her fingers.
I want to tell her everything—the fear, the want, the terror of losing her. Instead I hold her tighter.
Seventeen years of almost.
Tonight feels like the edge of never.
My phone buzzes again on the table inside. Through the glass door, I can see the screen light up.
I ignore it.
Whatever it is can wait.
She can't.
4
ALENA
I could breathe.
The cigarette, the beer, the night... Drogo. His hands rested on my hips, keeping me steady as I sat straddling him, face to face. The faint scent of smoke and him wrapping around me like a blanket I never wanted to take off. Without him, I'd be gone.
He leaned back against the chair, looking up at the stars, smoke curling up into the dark. I took a sip of beer, following his gaze to the sky.
The nightmare tonight had been a big one. Detailed. Long. Cruel. Tomorrow, I'd find the scratches down my back, but I wouldn't tell him that. They'd fade in a day or two, leaving no scars. If I didn't finish the story on time, they'd come back. Painfully so.
He'd see them tomorrow and break all over again. I couldn't let that happen.
That last part he knew—and it broke him. The first time he saw the marks, he hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. And he cried. Drogo cried. Big, shaking sobs into my neck, saying What can I do? over and over until I wanted to disappear. That night, in that damp Berlin basement, I swore the less he knew, the better.
He smiled at me now. Damn, that man had done too much for me. It wasn't fair.
Kissing him would've been the natural thing—but he didn't want that. Or maybe I didn't want what came after. Onewrong move between us, one misstep, and I could lose him. I wished I could kiss him casually, as a thank you, to show my love. But with him, love wasn't casual. It burned. It hurt.
Last week I was on the phone with Lucy, venting about exactly this. "He's never going to make a move," I told her, curled on my own couch with a glass of wine. "Seventeen years and nothing."
Lucy snorted. "The man has your name tattooed over his heart. He's in love with you."
"No. He's just... protective. Brotherly. His body reacts sometimes—big deal. Every guy's dick twitches when a woman sits on it. Doesn't mean he wants me."
"You've sat on it?" she asked, voice dropping low.
I groaned. "Not like that. Not properly. But close enough to know he gets hard. And then he pretends it didn't happen."
