Page 69 of When Hearts Collide

I want to feel her vitality, the pulse beating against her throat, bask in the strong rays of her sunshine, and let her chase away the suffocating darkness in my soul.

Instead, I reply, “My favorite animal is the snowy owl.”

Her hands pause and I sense her stare. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I continue, “They are rare and beautiful. Their feathers are as white as freshly fallen snow. But despite their beauty, the snowy owls are powerful hunters. They relish in solitude.”

“Independent and strong.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Just like you.”

I scoff. “No, not like me. I’m the facade. They’re the real deal.”

“Why do you feel this way?” Her voice is gentle, soothing, quietly teasing the wisps of darkness out of me.

“Being an Anderson isn’t an easy task. I love my family more than anything in the world, but the expectations growing up, the responsibilities…” My voice trails off as guilt snakes its way inside my chest. I’m privileged, living a life most people can only dream of. And yet, I’m still complaining.

Clearing my throat, I continue, “We’re born knowing we need to take a place in the family business and uphold the family’s pristine reputation. Ever since I can remember, I’ve known one day I’ll be taking the helm of Fleur alongside Maxwell. There are hundreds of years of unimpeachable Andersons in my lineage. A lot of history and character. It…it doesn’t—”

“Leave a lot of room for you to live for yourself,” she finishes as she places her delicate hand on top of mine. I freeze at her soft caress, the warmth, the gentleness.

Her magic.

“Perhaps your world isn’t as black and white as you think it is. If your family loves you like you say they do, they won’t want you to give up living for yourself because of them…because of traditions.”

She twines her fingers with mine, every slide feeling like the right key inserted into a lock, a satisfying click, the moment you feel the distinct snap as you turn and realize this rusty old lock finally opens. “They’ll want you to be happy, Ryland.”

“It isn’t done. Generations of Andersons before me and no one has stepped away.”

Because the stakes are too high, because everyone will lose everything if one of us falls out of line.

“Great Uncle Jameson kept the company afloat during the second world war. Rumors said he even had a rifle in one hand as he was closing the books when the fight got too close. Grandfather once said working for the family business was his greatest achievement.”

I have stories, many anecdotes of all the Andersons before me who have done their jobs with honor and pride. “And Maxwell, he gave up so much—” The words are stuck in my throat as the old wound inside my chest festers and aches, the boils spreading throughout my body.

“Family is always first,” I whisper. “Always.”

I hear her quiet breaths above the background noise, feel the comforting graze of her fingers as they twine with mine. Dancing, whirling, making love to me with her hand. My breath lodges in my throat, a sultry heat moving south, and my mouth waters, wanting to taste her again.

To drink from her magic.

“I think, Ryland,” she whispers back, keeping us in this startling intimacy, “life isn’t as dark as you think it is. Perhaps you can’t see it since you’re in the eye of the storm, with rain pouring down your face, blurring your vision. But I can. And I don’t care what you say about yourself. You’re a beautiful man, inside and out, and letting go isn’t as hard as you think it is. One day, I’ll convince you. You’ll see.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

The temptation, my heart fighting a losing battle. That ultimately, I’ll disappoint everyone around me because of my selfish desires.

Clutching her hand tightly in mine, I watch her fingers stiffen under the pressure. I increase my grip and hear her gasp. I give her a peek into my darkness and how I want to unleash the beast within.

Don’t you see I’m a monster beneath the suit? I can snuff out your life with a pinch of my fingers. I’m not roses and sunshine. I’m lightning and thunder. My thumb swirls a circle on the back of her hand, which is reddening by the second as the blood pools there.

Instead of pulling away, I hear the quickened pace of her breathing and fuck, I can’t help but turn and look at her, expecting anger or indignation in her eyes, or a furious command to let her go.

But what I see on her face threatens to burn through the steel chains of my restraint.

Her skin is flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded. Her mouth parts mid-gasp. I see her canting her head toward me, her luscious tits brushing against my arm. I can make out her nipples pebbling with each second of my gaze and the throbbing pulse in her neck.

She looks like my darkest dream coming to life. Submissive, yet both strong and soft for me.

She can take your darkness. She’s a fighter.

I want to drag her away to the private gardens on the other side of the rooftop, throw her on the ground, and render her immobile underneath me, her face pressed against the soft grass.

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