Page 77 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“I’m not worried about that.” I chew my bottom lip, my head shaking forcefully. The ache throughout my chest is so tangible, this emotional pain causing such a visceral physical reaction.

“Then why are you so adamant I don’t go?”

“I just—” I pause, not sure how to say this, feeling a little crazy. “I just got you. Finally, after all these years, I have you. I’ve peeled layer after layer. And now I’ve made it inside here.”

I lean up onto my knees, exposing the upper half of my torso to the chilly air. My nipples harden immediately, but I ignore my nudeness. Instead, I poke at his chest, just above his heart.

“I’m in here now, and I’m scared of who you’ll be when you come out of there, Thatcher.”

Henry had done irrevocable damage to Thatch. Unforgivable, awful things. The man made his child feel like he had no emotions, killed his youth, and turned him into a killing machine.

The closer Thatcher gets to me, the further away he drifts from Henry’s authority. What will he be after facing his father after all these years?

His hand falls to cup my cheek, rubbing at the tears streaking across my cheek. I push into his touch, shutting my eyes as my body shakes with panic.

I can’t let him do this. We can’t go through this.

“Henry Pierson does not control who I am anymore,” he replies, his tone adamant, as if he’s trying to make himself believe it.

I’m not sure who needs more convincing, me or himself.

“Who I am, who I become, that has nothing to do with him anymore.”

“He is the reason I lost everything. I will not lose you to him.”

A nasty streak of anger zips through me. I have never hated anyone the way I hate Henry Pierson. It would be a joy to watch him die. My hand curls around Thatch’s wrist, tightening around him until my nails begin to dig into the weak skin at his pulse.

“I swear, Thatcher, if he is the reason I lose you, I will kill him. Do you understand that?” I urge, pleading with him to comprehend what I’m capable of doing if something happens to him. “I will, do you hear me? I will—”

His movements stall my words.

He stands, lifting his leg and stepping into the water with me. Long, lean arms encircle my waist as he sits himself in the bath, and a staggering sense of safety takes over. The water sloshes out on the sides, but we ignore it as he hauls me into his lap, arranging us so I’m straddling his waist and his back is resting comfortably against the edge of the tub.

“Easy, Little Miss Death.” He drops his forehead to mine, his fingers rubbing circles into my lower back. “Knives away. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

My fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging at the strands. Our breath mingles together as I inhale every exhale of his, wanting to only breathe the air he provides.

“Don’t do this to me, please,” I beg.

My body thrums, and I press my weight into his lap, craving the closeness that comes from him being inside of me. I want beneath his fucking skin at all times. I need him to get lost in me right now, forget all about going to see his scum father and never think of it again.

“I’m doing this for you, Lyra,” he mutters, hands sliding down until he’s grabbing my ass with both hands. “If we want to make it out of this, I don’t have another choice.”

I can’t seem to stop the tears from flowing down my face. Maybe it’s a cry I’ve needed to let out for a while now. But my sorrow does not tamp down my want for him. My breasts push into his broad chest, bare skin against bare skin.

He’s going to go regardless of my pleas. There is nothing that will change his mind once he decides something. He’s far too stubborn for his own fucking good.

“If you forget who you are in there,” I whisper, swirling my hips against the bulge in his boxers, “remember what it feels like to be with me.”

The left side of his mouth tilts up. “How could I ever forget?”

My lips steal any words we had left. It’s not feverish or rushed; it’s a tender kiss, one that says I want to memorize every groove of your mouth, I want to protect these fragile pieces of you that are too sharp for others to carry, but I have gloves now, and you can’t cut me. Even if they sliced my palms, it would be okay.

For him, I’d bleed. For him, it’s worth it.

I taste the salt of my own tears as I lick at the seam of his lips, plunging into his mouth and tasting him. My hips grind along his hardening length, and I moan as his thick shaft brushes against the bundle of nerves between my thighs.

Our hands roam, bodies dancing in a waltz of need. His lips move to the corner of my mouth, across my jaw, and down my throat. I feel his hands cup the underside of my breasts, pushing them up as his tongue sweeps across my nipples.

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