Page 48 of Mayflower

And then she starts taking slow steps toward me, too, and mine quicken, and so do hers, and the last ten feet between us disappear in a second as we meet in the middle. Suddenly her arms fly around my neck, and I scoop her into my arms and hold her to me so tightly that I think I’m going to pass out. From her closeness. And how tightly she hugs me back. And the slight pang in my wound, reminding me what this cost me. But mostly from the wild thought that I have her, finally, again, with me.

I close my eyes and disregard the voices around us and everyone else staring. I can hold her like this forever and drown in her scent. This is the first time we are so close to each other in public. The first time she shows that she cares, sobbing, her face buried in the crook of my neck.

“You are back,” she whispers.

The world around us falls off and disappears. No, I wasn’t imagining things about us.

“Hello, beautiful,” I murmur, and another sob escapes her, and then another, her chest shaking against me. And then she’s full-on sobbing, whispering, “They thought you were gone. They didn’t say that, but everyone thought it. And I didn’t believe them. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And I missed you so fucking much.”

Every word is followed by a sob, and I open my eyes, lower her to her feet, and pull back so I can look into her beautiful eyes. They are full of tears, her face soaked.

“Shh,” I say. “Why are you crying, Maddy baby?”

I palm her face, and she laughs through tears, and I bow my head, touching my forehead to hers, as I gaze into her eyes and realize one thing.

Maddy and I were always meant to be. When we burned, we burned together. When we ached, we did so together. When I thought my feelings were going overboard, turned out so were hers. When feelings consumed me, she was obsessed, too. We cared for each other. We cared for the kid. We both were raised with a degree of violence. We both learned to fight it. We were so different, but in essence, we saw in each other the things we were missing, and we clicked. We melted into one. Carbon and pressure make diamonds, and we are both. We are brilliant, so fucking brilliant together.

“It’s all right. I’m back,” I whisper.

She palms my face too. “You’d b-better not d-do this to me again, Rave,” she murmurs with a sniffle.

“I won’t,” I promise. And she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me in front of every-fucking-one around.

I gotta tell you something. I’m not a prude. Nor am I shy. But I never publicly showed any display of affection. And Maddy’s kiss is not shy. Nor is it soft. It’s ravishing. It’s greedy. It’s sloppy. It’s crazy. She kisses me like she’s been deprived of oxygen, and I’m finally the source of life.

I chuckle in surprise when I pull back. But she doesn’t smile. She just studies me with a soft gaze like I’ve been missing for years, and my appearance changed.

Someone clears their throat, and we let our hands fall off each other. Maddy turns to look at the man standing behind us.

Papa Tsariuk.

I lock eyes with him. It’s hot and humid, but the sight of him is sobering. White button-up with rolled-up sleeves. Shorts. He is the same height as me but looks somehow bigger and way more intimidating than on camera.

“Dad, Raven,” Maddy says, wiping away tears and smiling, her eyes darting between the two of us.

I nod, offering my hand. “Mr. Tsariuk.”

His handshake is strong, his gaze somewhat lethal, but quietly lethal, like poison in a capsule. One wrong move, and it can burst. Or maybe, that’s just how I’ve always felt about him. Do I care now? Not a bit. I don’t give a fuck. I just want to be with Maddy.

He doesn’t study me head to toe. His eyes never leave mine. And he doesn’t let my hand go. It’s bizarre. Like he’s profiling me.

“I’m glad you made it safe,” he says.

“Thank you for your help,” I reply.

When he finally lets go of my hand, he slowly blinks away, and his eyes are on Sonny, who’s watching us with a grin.

Mr. Ortiz and Bishop walk up, taking Tsariuk’s attention from us.

Maddy cups my face and kisses me again.

“He might break my legs for you doing this, no?” I ask with a smile, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into me.

She breaks out in easy laughter.

Tsariuk suddenly turns to look over his shoulder at us. But he’s not looking at me or my arms around her shoulders. He’s looking at his daughter laughing, and his brutally Eastern European expression softens.

16

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