Except then I’d have to be completely honest. If we’re together, finally, I can’t let anything stand between us. That means exposing the worst part of me.
Not the part that hurt her.
She already knows that one.
I’m talking about the fact that I’m a murderer.
I don’t want to bring it up today, when everything between us is still so fragile.
For now, all I can give her is this. Testing the waters before we dive into the heavy stuff.
The air shifts in the room as I cross from darkness into the light.
Elowyn’s gray eyes hook into mine, waiting for me to come closer. Waiting for my answer. My forgiveness.
A huff of a laugh escapes me at that.
“What’s so funny?” Her head tilts, and thick, dirty-blonde locks drape to the side.
Standing like that, she looks like a doll. If I could only put her in my pocket and get the hell out of here—out of my head too—I probably would.
“Nothing. And you don’t owe me an apology,” I quip when I reach the pedestal, inhaling the scent of her clean skin. The faint fragrance of her shampoo. “In fact, don’t ever apologize for being there for me a decade ago. You were off-limits. Forbidden. And still the only thing keeping me steady.”
“Then?” Confusion swirls in her eyes that look silvery up close. “Why are you doing this?”
Because I convinced myself that you never cared. Because I fucked up. Because I can’t be honest with you, not yet.
“I promised you we’d talk, and we will. Later.”
“What’s wrong with now?”
A drum pounds in my head as worry creeps in.
I love how curious she is. That isn’t the issue. What gnaws at me is what happens once I tell her the truth and she starts asking why.
Why didn’t I hand over what little evidence I had to the police?
Why didn’t I drag Ross into civil court where they’d force him to answer questions he couldn’t dodge?
Why did I decide the law wasn’t enough?
And how will she react when the only answer I have for her is this—an eye for an eye?
Before panic has a chance to sink its claws into me, I shut it out.
Then, silently, I continue what I started. I connect with her through art.
When I dip the brush into the water, the bristles darken, the droplets beading at the tip before sliding down the handle as I raise it.
The first pass smooths the collar across her collarbone. She gasps as the silk clings, as the water sinks in, molding itself to her shape.
But that’s the only sound she makes.
As if Elowyn understands that I need touch more than words, she stays quiet with me.
Someone selfish wouldn’t do this. Someone careless wouldn’t be so gentle.
Every second of silence wears down the tension I walked in with. In its place, desire takes root.
