Page 30 of Liar's Heart
Fourteen months came and went like that until the day Len found me, tears streaming down her face. She flung her arms around me, dragging us both to the ground while she sobbed and struggled to get the words out. Ox was dead. And when his body was returned home for us to bury, we found it exsanguinated and heartless—the signs of a traitor’s death.
When Len was called in to go over his will, the attorney had a letter waiting for her that Ox had written immediately before his death. It’s been the best source of information we’ve had over the years, even if it was vague. In it, he told Len that Alec Sinclair was solely responsible for his death, but it was safest for us if he didn’t tell us why. That he was sorry to leave but didn’t regret his choices. And above all, for the two of us to take care of each other.
For years, the most we knew about Ox’s death was that Ender was the one who actually killed him, but Ox believed all the blame lay with Alec. And now I know that sometime in the fourteen months between Ox moving here and his death, he secured a bridal contract for me before transferring it to Ender.
I’m not even sure what a bridal contract is. Marriage contract, sure. Those are common enough. But those require the approval and signature of both parties involved. Which he could have gotten from me but didn’t. Why?
And why transfer it? Normally, if a party dies before a marriage contract is completed, the contract is dissolved. You don’t make contingencies for someone else to marry your betrothed. But Ox did. Ox secretly arranged to marry me and then gave me away to another man, who then kept his claimto me secret for almost a decade. I almost feel rejected, like Ox gave up on us before the end.
Maybe the reason Ender never told me is because he never wanted me.
I have so many questions, but none of them are as loud as the old, painful ache that’s settled in my chest. I know Ox loved me. And if he did this, it would have only been with my best interests in mind. Ox wouldn’t have done any of this unless he had a damn good reason. He knew I would be safe with Ender. I have to believe that. I have to.
Ender said that I can ask him anything and he’d be as honest with me as he can, but can I handle his honesty right now? I'm already emotionally spent from my second dead-boyfriend-induced crying jag for the day, and it's still only early afternoon.
Wiping the drying tears from my cheeks, I unlock my phone and let Jules know I’m out for the rest of the day and not willing to talk about it, then put it on Do Not Disturb. I need the rest of the day to sort my shit out before Ender comes home from work because once he’s here, there’s no way I’ll be able to wrestle my feelings back down into the box they’re supposed to be firmly contained in. Or maybe, I think, eyeing my nightstand, I should numb them instead.
I don't hear the door open and close over the music pulsing through the speakers, but my soul senses Ender's presence all the same once he's inside the gym. I don't turn around, but I do throw all the knives in my hand, sinking them one after the other into the target before he reaches me. Banding his arms across my chest, he bows his head to kiss my cheek ingreeting. “This isn't usually where I find you,” he murmurs in my ear.
God, he’s so warm and solid, his five o'clock shadow deliciously abrasive against my cheek. He's rolled up the sleeves of his Oxford shirt to the elbows, revealing the skeletal snake tattoo that winds around his forearm. I reach up and gently stroke the skin there, feeling for the slight rise in his skin caused by the ink. The other hand skates up the side of his face before threading my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and angling his head so I can kiss him. A low growl rumbles from his chest into my back as he reciprocates, taking a moment to fully melt into each other before he licks at the seam of my mouth, requesting further access. My lips part, my body automatically responsive to his and my mind and heart no longer interested in putting up a fight. His tongue glides against mine, and it's like he's pouring all his longing and ache and tension from being separated all day into me.
Or maybe I'm just that stoned.
He takes his fill from me and then pulls back, keeping my face tilted up to his so he can search my eyes. He looks worried. That worries me, so I ask, “What?”
Concern morphs into question as he asks, “Are you… high?”
I can feel the corner of my mouth beginning to rise all on its own. “Why would you think that?”
The V of his brows begins to invert itself, like my question is just adding to the evidence gathered against me. “Hmm. Well, your pupils are so dilated right now, you barely have irises. You're in here throwing knives and blaring”—he pauses to listen—“Nine Inch Nails, which looks like a great time, honestly, butisa new one for you. And, as much as I missed you today, you're the one grinding your ass on my dick and whimpering over a welcome-home kiss. What'd you take?”
I roll my eyes and scoff because, well, that was a completely accurate assessment of the situation. “Just weed.”
His eyebrows are now all the way up. “Really?” he asks before burying his nose in my hair and inhaling deeply.
I playfully shove at him. “It's a vape! Jesus. I hate the smell of pot. What are you, the party-drug police?”
Ender takes a step back, holding his hands up in surrender. “Hey, no judgment from me. God knows I spent enough of my twenties snorting all sorts of shit. This is just… new.”
“Yeah, well. Surprise.” I reclaim my knives from the target and walk back over to him. Resuming my stance, I grab my first knife and flip it so I'm holding it by the tip before I lift it, cock my arm back, and release the knife. It sinks into the target with a satisfying thunk. Flip, lift, release, thunk. Flip, lift, release, thunk.
When the third knife hits its mark, Ender holds out a hand to ask for one for himself. I hold the remaining three up and let him take his pick. He selects one, then makes his own throw. It sticks, and he turns to me before I've readied my next throw. “Are you… okay?” he asks.
I sigh. God, why does hecare? And he really does. I know he does. But I'm so tired of caring… of hurting. And I don't have it in me to try to navigate this conversation. Looking down at the two knives left in my hands, I weigh my response and decide what I'm willing to give him. “I'll be fine. I just need to turn my mind off for a while.”
“And Trent Reznor's helping?”
I raise the next knife, focusing on the target so I don't have to look at him. “Loud music feels good,” I explain. “And I really just want to feel good right now.”
He hums, and I release the knife. It sticks. A gentle hand circles around my wrist while the other takes the final knife. His hand stays on my wrist, thumb gently rubbing the delicate skin there until I look up into his eyes. “I would be morethan happy to help you with that,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you, baby. Please.”
The heat rolling off him has my knees threatening to buckle. I want him so badly it hurts, inside and out, but maybe it doesn't have to. Maybe we really are as inevitable as we feel. Nodding my head slowly, I whisper, “Please,” repeating his plea back to him.
The wolf’s smile leisurely overtakes his face, the predator having once again cornered his favorite prey. He turns lightning fast and launches the final knife at the target before adjusting his grip from my wrist to my hand. The dull thunk that should have followed is replaced by a sharp metallic tang, then two separate clattering sounds as the knife Ender just threw bounces off the one I had landed dead center and sends both of them crashing to the ground. Then he’s tugging me out the door. “Come on, my little stoner,” he teases. “You and I have a date with my desk.”
The momentthe lock clicks back into place on the study door, Ender drops all pretense of manners. “Do you have your vape on you?” he asks. Nodding, I retrieve it from my pocket and slap it into his outstretched palm. Holding it up, he tells me, “Take one more good hit for me, baby.”
I lean in, wrap my lips around the mouthpiece, and inhale the sweet vapor. I hold it, then exhale while Ender pockets the device and walks over to his desk, clearing off the top of it. Then he opens a drawer, takes out a remote, and starts a fire in the gas fireplace. Next, he finds our dagger on the wall, removes it, and brings it back to the desk. Setting the knife down, he casually leans against the front of the desk, hands gripping the edge on either side of his hips, and orders, “Strip.”
