He could still taste her—whiskey and desperation and something that was uniquely Enya—on his lips. Her fingers were still loosely tangled in his hair, her body pressed against his from shoulder to hip, warm and shockingly real. The spilled whiskey pooled on the warped wood floorboards near his boot, its sharp, sweet scent mingling with the damp leather and dust smell of the office. The bottle lay on its side, miraculously unbroken but empty, a stark symbol of the control he’d lost.
What the hell have we done?The thought slammed into him again, cutting through the lingering haze of bourbon and adrenaline. He’d crossed a line he knew he shouldn’t have even looked, never mind come close to. He was her anchor, her protector, the man who’d pulled her out of hell. But instead ofprotecting her, he’d kissed her like he was drowning, and she offered the last gasp of air he’d ever have. Worse, he’d kissed her with everything he had, letting the storm and the whiskey and the raw, aching need between them sweep away every shred of his carefully maintained distance.
Enya shifted slightly against him, her breath catching on a tiny, ragged inhale. Rowan felt the tremor run through her, a fine vibration beneath his hands still resting on her waist. Slowly and deliberately, he loosened his grip, giving her space she hadn’t asked for but seemed to desperately need.
Back off.
Give her room.
She decides what happens.
You deal with it.
Period.
Her fingers slowly uncurled from his hair. The loss of contact was like a physical chill, and Rowan shuddered against her. She drew back just enough to look up at him, her eyes wide, pupils still dilated in the dim lamplight, reflecting the chaotic mess inside him.
Her lips were swollen, faintly reddened from the scrape of his stubble and the force of his kiss. A flush stained her cheeks, clashing with the lingering pallor of exhaustion beneath her eyes. She looked utterly wrecked, beautiful, and terrifyingly vulnerable.
He saw the flicker of confusion, then dawning horror, then sheer panic chase across her face.
“Enya…” Her name sounded raw coming from his lips.
She flinched and scrambled backward off him so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips as if she could erase what had happened. Her gaze darted from his face to the spilled whiskey, to the worn leather couch, then back to him, “I… I need air,” she choked out, the words barely audible, and turning on her heel, she fled the office.
The barn door groaned open and then slammed shut behind her as Rowan slumped back against the cracked leather of the couch. He dragged a hand down his face.
That was a stupid-ass move.
It was also reckless, not to mention unprofessional.The self-recriminations landed like hammer blows. He’d taken advantage of her. She was shattered, adrift, seeking any port in the storm, and he’d… what? Offered comfort? Or taken what he’d wanted because the darkness in him recognized the darkness in her?
You’re supposed to be her safe harbor, asshole. Not the fucking storm that puts her on the rocks.
He stared at the empty doorway, trying to ignore the image of her fleeing figure that was burned onto his retinas. He pushed himself off the couch, his movements stiff and automatic. He righted the bottle and wiped the worst of the spill with a rag snatched from his desk. The motions were grounding and mundane.
Control what you can control.
He needed coffee—strong, black, scalding coffee. He probably should have had it before he freaking came out here. But then nobody had ever accused him of being the smart twin.
The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten with streaks of pale grey and bruised purple as he began the walk back to the house. He braced himself as he pushed open the kitchen door and winced because the overhead light was already on in the kitchen.
Gael stood at the counter, his back to the door, pouring water into the coffee maker. His posture relaxed, but Rowan knew his twin too well. The slight tension in Gael’s shoulders, the deliberate slowness of his movements, all screamed that he was waiting for something or, rather someone… him.
“Morning,” Rowan grunted, heading straight for the sink.
“Mornin’.” Gael didn’t turn around. The gurgle of the coffee maker starting filled the silence for a moment. “Storm finally quit. Sounded like a real bastard.” He casually leaned a hip against the counter, finally glancing over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp and assessing as it swept over him.
Fuck.
Rowan silently cursed and managed to suppress a wince when his brother’s gaze lingered for a fraction of a second too long on his rumpled shirt.
Act normal.
Normal?
He wasn’t entirely sure that normal was in his wheelhouse anymore.
“You look like hell warmed over. Rough night?”
