There I was, beaten bloody and still dancing on the edge of the one danger I had never learned how to survive.
The place where both of us stood close enough to see the other side but not quite ready to step over.
I swallowed, suddenly too aware of his hand in mine, of the warmth of him beside the bed, of the bruise around my throat and the ache in my ribs and the fact that even after a bad night, Cade still made me feel like something in me was alive enough to be scared.
“I think,” I said carefully, “you act like you aren’t.”
His gaze held mine long enough for the truth to show through.
“I’m not acting.”
My breath caught.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping lower, rougher, that Cade certainty wrapping around every word. “I know exactly where I am with you.”
I stared at him, pulse fluttering hard beneath bruised skin.
“That is not a normal sentence,” I whispered.
“No.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“I can.”
“Cade.”
“I’m not confused, Pip.”
My eyes burned again, but this time I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. He had me pinned there with nothing but his hand around mine and the kind of focus that made the entire hospital room disappear around the edges.
“You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to say,” he said. “Neither do I. But don’t sit there hurting yourself over whether I feel what you are feeling.”
My throat worked painfully.
“Are you?”
His thumb brushed over my knuckles.
“Yeah.”
The word was simple.
Rough.
Certain.
So Cade it nearly broke me.
A tear slipped down my face, and this time I let it. “You’re doing it again.”
“I know.”
“You’re making it very hard to maintain my emotional brand.”
“Your brand is chaos and making the English language your bitch.”
“And lip gloss.”
