Page 105 of Ablaze

She snorts. “Pretty sure I used none of those words, and I refuse to placate you fishing for compliments.”

I sigh. “After that earth-shattering orgasm I gave you, it’s the least you could do.”

She giggles. “Fine. I said you were hot.” She kisses my jaw. “And you are. So fucking hot.”

“Now you’re just fishing for another orgasm.”

“Unfortunately, I need to figure out a way to untangle myself from your steel grip and get to work.”

I tighten my arms around her. “What were you going to ask me when you asked about that day?”

She pauses, seemingly thinking about her question. “Why were you so upset when I said that?”

I try to recall my reaction from that day, but I remember the other thing she told me. Not being able to control the irritation that surges inside me at the thought of that fucking piece of shit who had the gall to lay a hand on her, I grind my molars. “Probably because it was the same day you told me you were going to move in with that asshole ex-boyfriend of yours.”

Mala shifts in my arms, placing her hands around my jaw. “Firstly, stop your molar grinding and nose flaring. As sexy as it is, I’m seriously afraid you’re going to need dental surgery.” Her smile drops when she sees I’m not laughing. “He’s gone, Dean. You made sure of it, and I’m grateful for having you there to be by my side during that time in my life.”

“It fucking killed me, Mala. I hated the thought of you with anyone, but it killed me to see you with him. I would have strangled him–” I take in a shaky breath as memories flood my brain.

The tears pooled in her eyes, the bruise on her shoulder, the way she hid it from me. I should have known he was going to hurt her. I should have protected her better. I should have–

“Dean.” Mala’s voice has me focusing back on her face, and I notice her eyes shimmer from behind a wall of tears. “You did protect me. You’ve always protected me.”

I realize I must have said some of my thoughts out loud.

“I should have broken his goddamn arm,” I grit out.

She presses her lips to mine. “I didn’t bring any of this up to stir up bad memories.” She nips my lip with a smile, and I know she’s trying to take me out of the funk I’m in. “So back to what I originally asked. I told you I thought you were attractive–”

“Hot.”

She giggles. “Right. Hot. I told you I thought you were hot before I told you about moving in with Warren. But . . . you seemed pissed, and I never understood that. Then you ran off to Colorado.”

I huff out a breath and a soft laugh. “I wasn’t angry at you. I was pissed at myself. Pissed at the situation, knowing you were with him and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’d finally admitted to myself I wanted you . . . but I couldn’t have you. I couldn’t kiss you when that was the only thing I wanted to do.”

“So . . .” She clears her throat. “What about after that? After Warren and I broke up, and the times you and Jessie were broken up, too? Was the reason you didn’t say anything about your feelings for me then related to what you told me after Grams’ funeral? Because you were trying to protect me from you?”

My voice is raspy. “Yeah. I was an idiot.”

She nods, not disagreeing, but I wonder what’s fueled her thoughts. “And now? Are you no longer afraid of those same things now?”

I gaze into her chocolaty eyes. “If I was scared before, I’m terrified now, sweetheart. Now I know exactly what I’d lose; I know exactly what’s at stake.” I swallow. “But I also refuse to lose my last chance to love.”

* * *

She’s standing in the backyard of her bakery, looking out through the wire fence at seemingly nothing. A couple of dogs play off-leash behind her while their owners converse with cups in hand.

Her hips swing from one side to the other, her toned legs long under her shorts and sneakers. Even from where I stand inside the café, I can see her biting her thumbnail, deep in thought.

She doesn’t wear those bulky sweatshirts during the warmer days anymore–opting for T-shirts and tank tops–and I’m so fucking proud of her. Not because I cared what she ever wore–because, let’s be honest, she’d look gorgeous in a garbage bag if that’s what she chose to wear–but because I am so proud of how far she’s come.

She’s always been witty and strong–so damn strong–but now her confidence shines through. She no longer hides behind bulky clothing, hoping no one asks her about her past. Now she displays that past like a prized possession, an accolade of her survival. In fact, I don’t recall even seeing her touch the smaller scar on the inside of her wrist in all the time she’s been back.

My beautiful, incredible girl.

I couldn’t survive without her. How did I survive this long without being able to call her mine?

And with everything we’d shared with each other over the past three months, I know exactly what I mean to her, too.

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