Page 70 of Godless
"I believe we choose," I said finally. "Maybe not the circumstances we're born into. Not the sins our fathers committed or the damage they passed down. But we choose what we do with it."
"Then stop worrying about becoming him." Lorenzo sighed and settled against me. "You just spent hours putting me back together. Your hands were shaking because you were afraid of hurting me, not because you wanted to. That's not your father. That's you."
"But wanting to own you—"
"Is that what you want?" He turned more fully toward me, ignoring the pull on his stitches. "To own me? Like property?"
"No," I said immediately. "I want you to choose me. Every day. I want you to be mine because you want to be, not because I forced it."
"Then that's the difference." His hand came up to touch my jaw. "Your father took. You're asking. Even when you don't say it out loud, you're asking."
I pressed my forehead against his. "I don't know how to do this," I whispered.
"Me neither." His hand came up to touch my jaw, fingers tracing the line of it like he was memorizing the shape. His thumb caught on my bottom lip. “But maybe it’s like you said. We get up every day andwe choose to try, and maybe that’s enough for broken former weapons like us.”
I caught his hand where it rested against my face. "I hope it is."
His forehead pressed against mine and we stayed like that, breathing the same air.
I held him, listening to his breathing even out into sleep, feeling his heartbeat steady andstrong under my palm.
Rafael's fingers moved throughmy hair in slow, careful strokes. He thought I was still asleep.
In reality, I'd been awake for ten minutes, memorizing the rhythm of his touch, the warmth of his palm against my scalp, the way his fingernails scraped lightly, almost hesitant, like he was afraid I'd break.
I was pathetic for wanting this, for staying still so he wouldn't stop.
The cabin smelled like pine smoke and Diego's terrible coffee. My shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat. The eagle wounds on my back pulled tight every time I inhaled, but Rafael's hands had been keeping me tethered for three days.
My mother's face flashed behind my eyelids, the spray of red, the sound of the gunshot. I shoved it down.
"We can't stay here forever," Jasper said from somewhere across the room. "Constantine knows we're in the area. It's only a matter of time before—"
"Lorenzo needs more time to heal."
I peeled my tongue off the roof of my mouth and tasted old blood. "I'm not dying. And I'm not an invalid. We can move whenever we need to."
Rafael's fingers stopped, then started again, gentler.
"You're supposed to be resting," he said, and his voice did things to my nervous system that had no business happening when I had holes in my back.
"I've been resting for three days. I'm going to develop bed sores." I opened my eyes and Rafael's face filled my vision, inches away, with dark circles under his eyes like bruises and stubble darker than usual, past the point of attractive. "Besides, Diego keeps making terrible coffee. I'm suffering."
"My coffee is fine," Diego called from across the room.
"Your coffee tastes like gasoline mixed with regret."
"That's called 'strong.'"
"That's called 'a crime against humanity.'"
Rafael's mouth twitched, almost a smile, and his thumb traced my cheekbone.
"Someone’s here." Jasper stood at the window, one hand on the curtain. "We've got someone on the northeast ridge. Possible sniper, two hundred meters."
I tried to sit up, but Rafael held me firmly against him and shook his head.
Diego drew his gun. "Where?"
