Page 40 of The Last Hope
He always says that I’m a beautiful sight, but when I awake to Mykal and his lopsided smile and the rigorous drumbeat of his kind heart, the sun has kissed me. And I feel unbelievably whole again.
The corner of his mouth lifts higher, brightening the grave, dark places inside of me. “Well, aren’t you mighty pleased and satisfied.” He eyes my lips. “I’ll be taking credit for that.”
I almost smile. “You should,” I whisper.
He pats my cheek twice and then holds my jaw—but our reality suddenly rushes toward me.
How I fainted in front ofStork.How we’re no longer in our familiar snow-covered country. Up above through a round sky port, a star-blanketed galaxy stares back. How, at any second, we could lose sight of the dangers and be taken from each other.
Split apart or worse.
I refuse to lead him or Franny into peril again, and that means staying focused on the task at hand.
So I start to make sense of where I am. My back lies on what appears to be a dark-blue cushioned bench. A plush circular pillow beneath my head.
Mykal balances his hunting knife and a whittled piece of wood on his lap. Sitting on a stool next to me, he says, “You’re glaring at me, you realize.” His crooked smile remains, even as he sticks what appears to be a lit cigarette back between his lips. “You have that cross face about you. Like you enjoy wringinghappinessby the neck.”
“I don’t enjoy it,” I say curtly, and in all the gods-forsaken places I could rest my narrowed eyes, they fall to his mouth.
Mykal mumbles with his cigarette, “Ah, so you’re looking to be kissed then.” He runs his thumb along my squared jawline.
My nose flares, a sweltering intensity lighting my nerve endings. This close, I can only truly sense him and me. Embers eat the end of his cig, and smoke spills into the air like a tender wisp.
I remind Mykal, “It has to be done.”
“Kissing?” He plucks his cigarette out and blows a gust of smoke off to the side. Out of my eyes.
“Staying focused.”
Mykal sucks his cig again and cups my face. “Can’t we do both?”
We can’t.
It’s better to be cautious. To be alert. To be maddeningly strict and survive than to be starry-eyed in love and perish.
His thumb glides roughly across my cheek and mouth with keen desire. Heat gathers. Pleasure rousing, and then stirring a need that should be kept dormant for his sake.
He’s more overeager than shy, as I always thought he would be if we coupled. I could happily envelop myself in these feelings with him.
But I caution myself again. And again.I can’t put him at risk.
I try to set my stern gaze on his hard-hearted blues. His thumb parts my lips, and a wild, torrid fire ignites across my limbs—as though reminding me that this is life. I am alive. I inhale, breath pouring into my lungs.
His chest rises, and he clasps my jaw, primal and rugged movements aching to swathe me. I feel his need grow stronger, and with a ragged exhale, his hand clenches the bench beside my head.
Mykal craves to roll on top and tangle together like two young lovers in his village. All raw strength and wanting breath and uninhibited things.
He resists the pull. Combatting his yearning for my sake.
Our lips haven’t even touched, a single breath away, and I’m wrappedfullyin his essence. Falling further away from focus.
Focus.
Abruptly, with my palm to his bare chest, I push him back and sit up. Gasping like I breached the surface of a pool. Undone. Air colder than his warmth. I comb my hair out of my face with two hands.
Frustration springs into my muscles. I try to exhalehisfrustration.
Leaning back farther, Mykal taps ash. “I think you love nurturing misery like a baby. Cradling the tot all day, all night. Letting it suckle your—”
