Page 17 of Wild Valentine
I hold my breath, not sure if he’ll answer. But it’s not because of the story that I ask. It’s because he’s baring his soul with these effigies and I want to heal him, to soothe him, to take away some of his pain.
“Twelve years.” He tuns away from the table of warriors. “Too long.”
And the rigidness of his back tells me everything I need to know. He lost friends over there. He saw death, and it wasn’tpretty or noble. It was a beast that clawed into his soul and haunts him still.
Tentatively, I put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
He turns to face me, and his face is in shadow. “I don’t like to talk about it, Hazel.”
He’s breathing hard, and I hear all that’s unsaid.
It still haunts him.
His dark eyes search mine, and there’s a vulnerability to them that he hasn’t shown me before. Since I’ve met Marcus, apart from being a little grumpy, he comes across as light-hearted, making jokes like he’s got no cares in the world. But I don’t know anything that’s really going on inside.
My hands go to his cheeks, and I run them over his rough beard. He groans and closes his eyes, leaning into my touch.
My heart thunders in my chest. I want to ease his pain. I want to kiss it out of him, to give him some comfort and take his darkness.
When he opens his eyes, there’s fire in them. The spark is back.
His hand clasps my wrist, and the pressure makes me gasp.
“Touching me like that isn’t going to get you your story.” His voice is as raspy and ragged as the emotions on his face.
“I don’t care about the story.” In this moment it’s true. What’s happening between us is bigger than a story, bigger than my job, bigger than a bunch of unpaid bills. That stuff doesn’t matter when I’m looking into the heart and soul of this man. “I care about you.”
He groans as I say it, and conflict flashes across his face. Fear and uncertainty.
He’s been hurt.
I’m sure of it. The knowledge only makes me want him more. To ease his troubles, to show him kindness and love.
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
Conflict marches across his face, along with desire and uncertainty. The desire wins as he presses his mouth to mine.
It’s a slow kiss. A healing kiss, tender and warm. A kiss we both need so badly, a kiss that proves there’s still something good in the world.
He gives into it completely. His hands tangle in my hair, and he pulls me toward him. My hands go around his neck, and we embrace like lovers who’ve known each other for eternity rather than two days.
I lose myself in the kiss, in the sweet oblivion of his warmth.
The stillness of the workshop is broken by the ringing of my phone vibrating in my back pocket.
For a delicious moment I think of ignoring it, not wanting to break the spell. Then I think of Mom, and I pull away.
“I have to take this,” I say when I see Mom’s number flash up on the screen.
Marcus looks disappointed, but he doesn’t push.
His fingers run down my arm as we pull apart, keeping connected to me until the last minute.
“Is everything okay, Mom?”
I try to keep my voice steady and am relieved to hear Mom sounding cheerful.
“Yes, don’t panic. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
