Page 147 of Saving Sparrow
“I won’t hurt you,” I whispered. “I’d never hurt you.”
His hold loosened but didn’t fall away, and with another sigh, he closed his eyes, letting me cup his other cheek too. I brushed my thumbs under his puffy eyes, wishing I could take the bruises away.
I angled his head, positioning it better under the moonlight. A smudge of shimmery blue glinted on his eyelid. I gently wiped it away, wishing it were that easy to wipe all the painful things that had ever happened to him away as well.
Sparrow lightly trailed his fingers up and down my arm, his mouth parting as he explored my skin. “Soft,” he breathed, frowning as if he hadn’t known it could be that way. He’d touched my bare skin before, but only ever in violence—at first—or when he stretched and massaged me in a more clinical way. “Soft like your hair.” His fingers drifted to my elbow before trailing back to my wrist.
My hair?
Then I remembered when I’d fallen asleep while he stretched and massaged me, and I’d jerked awake to the feeling of something crawling over my hair.
I kept quiet, worried that acknowledging it would ruin this. I bypassed the thin scar along his hairline for the same reason, stroking a hand down the braid resting along his shoulder instead. It was so wet and cold, I wondered how he never got sick. I kept quiet about that, too.
Sparrow’s brilliant blue eyes flicked open suddenly, boring into my soul with their intensity. My blood warmed as he continued to graze his fingers along my arm, and in that moment, I allowed myself to think the one thought I’d been denying myself.
I’m falling for my captor.
I didn’t know how to deal with that admission. Didn’t know how to reconcile it with loving and wanting to save my husband. All I knew for sure was that, in the end, I would do the right thing, even though the right thing would hurt like hell.
Ashamed of myself, I cleared my throat to speak, to hopefully break the spell it seemed Sparrow was feeling, too. But ashamed or not, I didn’t take my hands off him, and he didn’t take his off me.
“Why do you love Demian’s story so much?” I had my theories, but I wanted to know his.
Sparrow blinked drowsily, reminding me of how tired he was.I’ll let him sleep, I promised myself, not ready to let go of this version of him.In just a little while, I’ll let him sleep.
“Because,” he started, voice hoarse. “Because he was acknowledged.”
I ran the back of one hand along his high cheekbone as I tried to keep my heartache and devastation to myself. “I acknowledge you, Sparrow. I acknowledge your bravery, how fiercely you protect. I acknowledge your sacrifices for those you love, and the pain you’ve endured. I acknowledge your big heart, your sadness, your loneliness, your strength, and your fears. I see you, Sparrow,” I said quietly, “and I’llalwaysacknowledge you.” Even if I left here empty-handed, if I walked out of here alone. Even if I ended up losing everything I’d spent months dreaming of. Sparrow would forever be a part of me.
“I swear it.” I said the words as though they were an oath written in blood, and they might as well have been.
Sparrow backed away from my touch, the absence of his hand leaving me cold again. He breathed heavily, his lips a thin line. I knew him well enough now to know what he was struggling with.
“This is the part where youdon’tget angry, where youdon’thide just because I’ve said something that made you feel vulnerable. Don’t lash out, Sparrow. Let the goodness in you dictate what you do next.”
He trembled, the anger in his eyes flaring, cooling, then flaring again. Sparrow angled his head away. Eventually, his body sagged, and the corners of his mouth softened. When he looked at me again, the rawness in his gaze almost split me wide open.
Without a word, Sparrow picked up one of the pillows he’d been lying on and set it down for me.
“Thank you,” I breathed, feeling so proud of him. I settled onto my side, facing him. He stared down at me for a while before situating all three blankets over us as he slid onto his side, too.
We lay there blinking at each other, his getting slower and heavier, but still, he wouldn’t go to sleep.
I stretched my hand out beneath the blanket, searching for his. They were balled into fists. I uncurled his fingers to hold his hand, whispering something Quentin said to Elliott more than once. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” I inched closer until our bodies lined up, until our knees and sock-covered feet touched.
Humming my mother’s lullaby, I held his hand until his breathing slowed, until he pressed his forehead to mine and whispered the words he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud before. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
He drifted off then, and I ended up holding his hand for hours as I lay awake replaying his apology and all that had transpired upstairs. New revelations evolved with each playback, and I fell asleep with one final thought floating around in my mind.
There’s still one more room.
Miguel
Now
We had spent the next six nights sleeping together on Sparrow’s makeshift bed, using the cold as an excuse to decrease any amount of space between us. A soft grazing of our knees or a featherlight touch of our toes became a firm pressing together of limbs and fingers that intertwined.
Each night had started the same. We’d prepare and eat dinner at the kitchen island, then separate at the stairs, whispering good night to each other. I’d shower, then lie in bed staring at the ceiling until insomnia grew bored with me. I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the armchair by my bed, and a book lying open on the nightstand.
