Page 21 of Burned By Sin
Outside, the snow keeps falling, blanketing the world in white. I peer out of the windows often, as if I can materialize Clay out of pure longing. The worse the weather gets, the more my hope diminishes. Even if he isn’t coming, I hope he’s somewhere safe. Worry gnaws in my gut as I go about the house, unpacking our bags and checking the pantry. Rhys and I bought out most of Target on the way over. Extra clothes, junk food, a bunch of things I just thought were cute. The house owner offers a grocery delivery service, although the refrigerator is fully stocked to see us through the rest of the week. We have mostly everything we need.
I’ve lit all of the candles lining the mantelpiece by the time Rhysappears with two steaming mugs of cocoa. Streams of chocolate drip over the rim, a smudge of powder on his cheek. I conceal my reaction, both amazed that Rhys has evidently never made himself a hot drink before and humbled that he put the effort in for me. We settle down on the sofa, a thick blanket pulled over our legs. The fire cracks, the tree glows, and the mounted TV is playing a cheesy movie.
It's a picturesque evening, even if my gaze wanders to the front door more times than I can count. Sighing gently, I lean my head against Rhys’s shoulder, the heat of him seeping through my sweater. He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head until it rests lightly atop mine. If this is what it’s like when Rhys isn’t trying to get into my pants, I might pretend to be on my period three weeks out of the month.
We remain like that for hours. The fire burns low, soft embers glowing like the last heartbeat of the day. White flakes swirl against the windows in steady waves, the whistle of the wind sounding over the TV. Rhys’ head grows heavier and I know soon, we’ll have to lock up and head upstairs.
“Rhys,” I mumble, nudging my shoulder against his chest. He jerks upright, momentarily disorientated.
“Huh?” he blinks sleepily, noticing the credits of the movie are rolling. I pry the empty mug from his hand and set it aside.
“If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?”
“Probably,” he yawns behind his hand. I push myself upright and fold my legs beneath me.
“You did invite Clayton, right?” A knowing huff leaves him as he scrubs a hand over his eyes. He was waiting for my doubt to creep in.
“Regretfully, yes I did.”
“And you gave him the correct address?” I press on. If this has been one big trick on both of our parts, I’d rather know now. Rhys raises a brow, his face unimpressed. I lick my lips, glancing towards the window again. “It's just...he should have been here by now. He had a head start.”
I knew the hotel wasn’t a permanent situation, but when Rhys’ father put an end to our stay, we scrambled for a solution. One that would be far enough away from the creep back at Waversea, and one that could accommodate all three of us, should Clayton need a place to stay. Catching me chewing on my bottom lip, Rhys pries it free with his thumb.
“Maybe he's not coming, Babygirl. If that's the choice he made, then you have your answer. You've done more than enough.” Rhys’ voice is firm but not unkind. Still, it lands somewhere deep in my chest, where the last fragile hope I’ve been holding onto starts to splinter. My throat tightens and I stand, walking toward the window. The warm light spilling out from the lounge makes everything blurred and golden. My reflection stares back. Tired eyes, messy hair, a faint frown etched between my brows.
The truth is, I miss Clayton with every aching part of me. I miss the way his voice softened when he said my name, the way his gaze lingered, always on high alert for the next threat. But I can’t keep waiting around. Rhys is right, I’ve done enough. I’ve groveled for a prank I had no part in, begged for forgiveness that wasn’t mine to seek. I’ve put my heart on the line for Clayton to cherish or crush. I suppose I have my answer. He’s not here now. He didn’t come.
Arms wrap around my waist, fingers brushing my hips. Leaning back into Rhys’ chest, the reflection changes. No longer alone, I’m now being held by a man who has chosen me time and again. Even when he did have reason to cut me off, Rhys couldn’t stay away. He’s the opposite of Clayton. Selfish, entitled, vain, and devoted to me. Rhys’s hand comes up to my jaw, twisting my face to look up at him.
“Let’s go to bed.” There’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at me, practically famished. Turning in his hold, I flutter my lashes innocently.
“Even though I’m out of action?” I smirk. A flare of lust bursts within Rhys’ blue eyes. He lowers his head and laughs deeply beside my ear.
“Your mouth isn’t.”
Chapter Thirteen
Morning seeps in with the promise of another silvery day, even in the first rays of dawn. From the comfort of the king-size bed, I peer at the network of pinks and reds bleeding across a cloudless sky. Rhys is pressed against the length of me, our backs aligned as we face outwards. His ribs rattle slightly as he breathes deep, hinting to him snoring. Luckily, I have the option of leaving my receivers behind as I slip out from beneath the thick cover, the floorboards unforgiving beneath my toes. Pulling on an oversized sweatshirt and socks, rubbing warmth into my arms, I pad downstairs.
The living room is still, absent of light and life. Cinnamon candles sit melted on the mantel, our mugs forgotten on the table. I collect them up, haphazardly folding the blanket and putting it back in place before heading into the kitchen. Filling the kettle, deciding I need a hot drink before I can tackle making breakfast with icy limbs, my gaze snags on something beyond the back door. The porch light is on, blinking as if it’s due a replacement.
Frowning, I step closer to the frosted window, rubbing at the glass to peer through. The back yard is blanketed in white, the edges of my vision blurred. The trees bordering this piece of land are pale and void of life. The light continues to flicker so I unlatch the door, stepping outon tiptoes. Maybe there’s a switch to turn it off until we can inform the owner. But as I slip into the icy morning, my breath fogging before me, a dark bundle catches my attention. Huddled on the decking, clumps of snow coat a military jacket and beanie hat. My heart stutters.
“Clayton!” The name tears out of me, half-choked. Cold forgotten, I drop to my knees, lifting his head in my hands. His skin is deathly pale, his lips tinged blue. “Hey. Hey, can you hear me?” My fingers shake as I tap his cheek. Clay’s head lolls slightly toward me, eyes barely open. He tries to mutter something, but I can’t hear him, so I start screaming for Rhys instead.
Trying to shift Clayton, he’s dead weight, his muscles refusing to cooperate. I manage to lift his head uneven to drag his duffle bag beneath him, but his attempts to help are jerky and uncoordinated. Classic hypothermia.
“What the hell, Harp?!” Rhys’ voice suddenly explodes inside my head. I flinch, jolting Clayton and now hearing his resulting groan.
“Help me get him inside,” I order without looking behind me. There’s a sigh and a grumble, but Rhys leans down and grabs Clay beneath the arms. I’m not much help, using the stiff material of his jacket to drag him over the threshold, like pulling a sandbag through water. We manage to get him halfway across the kitchen before my trembling arms give out.
“Damn heavy bastard,” Rhys complains, heaving Clay the rest of the way to lie him before the fireplace. I run on shaky legs, collecting up the blankets that are dotted around, mostly for decoration.
“You need to strip off his clothes,” I demand. Rhys makes a guttural sound, suddenly dropping Clayton where he is.
“I will be doing no such thing,” Rhys scoffs. I swivel around to glare at him, now noticing the rush in which he got dressed. His vest is inside out, his sweatpants tugged in awkward angles and hair sticking up. It looks like he came running to my aid, until realising I’m not the one in trouble.
“We need to get him out of his wet clothes and bring his temperature upslowly. If we do it too fast, his body will go into shock. His heart’s already under stress.”
