I don’t say anything—I just lean in, press my lips to hers, feel the mesh of our teeth, the slip of tongue against tongue. I taste the spiral of us, the bodies and histories, and every broken thing we’ve used to patch these moments together.
Marshall is a furnace behind her, cheeks flushed so deep the freckles disappear into the heat. He buries himself in her, again and again, and all the words he’d never say come out in the way he fucks, in the shudder of his breath and the way his fingers splay against her skin.
She’s panting now, hips caught in the tug of war between want and overwhelm, but I can tell she’s right at the cliff, and I’m right there with her.
Everything is noise and heat and wet, and the slick sound of skin on skin fills the room loud as a drumbeat.
I don’t know if it’s the sweat or the spit or just the way we tear her open and fill her up, but my mouth is watering again, and I lean in, lick between her panting lips, taste the wild on her tongue.
She bites me, hard, and the pain is so good I see starbursts behind my eyes.
The sound she makes as they both finish is so wild, so crazy, I just know in that moment I definitely want to hear it again.
I just hope she feels the same way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Abilene
Thursday
A few days have passed, and my body has mostly caught up.
Mostly.
The sharp edge of everything has softened, but the awareness is still there, humming low beneath my skin. Not ache, exactly. More like my body is still taking inventory, making sure all the pieces came back with me.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the familiar sounds of the house settling into morning.
Okay, Abilene.
Still here.
Still upright.
But I still need to breathe before I do anything else, so I pull on my boots and head out back.
The air is cool, washed clean by earlier rain, carrying the faint, mineral scent of damp soil and singed pine from the ridge. The hives sit in their row along the fence line, dark boxes against the green, as familiar to me as the lines of my own hands.
I pause a few steps away, listening.
The hum is even.
Not exuberant or anxious.
“That’s better,” I murmur, more relief than commentary.
I set my veil and smoker on the bench. I walk the line slowly, eyes scanning without touching.
Landing boards first. Foragers are coming and going in arcs now, pollen baskets dusted yellow and orange. No frantic pacing. No clustering at the entrances.
Good.
I crouch beside Hive One and rest my palm against the side wall. The vibration through the wood is smooth, cohesive, a single organism breathing. I knock lightly with my knuckles, just enough to feel the response ripple back.
Healthy.
I light the smoker anyway. Dried needles, a pinch of burlap, coaxed into cool white smoke. When I puff it gently at the entrance, the bees fan instead of surging, drawing the scent inward.
