Page 176 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

SHAE

He finally called me.

Four days after my positive test and two days after I found out about the car accident that killed his parents, Storm finally called me.

Hearing his voice nearly broke my heart all over again, but for a new reason.

He sounded like he’d died along with them.

So even though he didn’t invite me over, I find myself standing outside his apartment door after having knocked for a third time.

Just when I’m about to turn around and leave, the door cracks open so slowly it almost feels like something out of a horror movie until his face appears.

“Storm,” I say on a breath.

He looks terrible. Stubble coats his jaw—something he never lets happen—and his T-shirt looks at least three decades old.

But the way he looks at me…it sends a shiver from the top of my head to my feet. He’s never looked at me like this, and I don’t know what to do with it.

“I brought you some cookies,” I say dumbly, holding up the glass Tupperware container with honey-lavender shortbread cookies. “I thought something sweet might…help.”

Yup. Dumb.

My stomach turns over and I grit my teeth in an attempt to prevent myself from throwing up. Again.

“Thank you,” he says, but makes no move to take them.

“Can I come in?” I whisper, uncomfortable and awkward. I know he’s going through the worst time in his life, but this coldness he’s radiating? It doesn’t feel like it’s only his grief.

Some other darkness is there, infecting him to the core.

Storm moves so quickly, it takes me a second to understand what’s happening.

With one hand, he takes the container from me; with the other, he pulls my body close to him, jerking me into the entryway of his apartment.

He kicks the door closed with his foot.

Setting the cookies on the entry sidebar, he wraps both arms around me and buries his face into my neck, breathing deeply as if he were trying to draw my scent deep into his lungs.

“Storm,” I say, choked by my instant tears. “What do you need, baby?”

I run my palms over him, up and down his back, his shoulders, across the nape of his neck.

“I’m so sorry this happened. It’s unthinkable.” He shakes as if he’s holding back silent tears, and the realization has me sobbing.

“Storm, I’m so damn sorry. I’m here for you. What do you need?”

His grip tightens, flexing in the fabric of my coat.

“It’s whatever you want,” I vow and he groans. It’s a pained, desperate sound.

Hurt. Broken.

“I love you, Storm,” I whisper into his ear, and he shudders again, and suddenly he picks me up and attaches his mouth to mine.

I push my coat off my shoulders and jerk the scarf from around my neck. His lips and tongue and teeth attack, drawing out my moans and sighs and making me instantly wet. It feels like he’s channeling all his pain and anger and grief into the action, and while I should hesitate, while I should air out the major issue in front of us, I let him take me.

I allow him to take what he needs from me.

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