Page 77 of It's You
He jolted back, his palms by his sides, flat on the sheets of his bed. They curled in frustration as he realized it was over.
“Damn it!” he bellowed, grabbing the pillow beside him and chucking it across the room as hard as he could. It hit the rocking chair by the windows and exploded, a shower of feathers rising up into the air before falling softly on the chair, the bed, the bureau, the floor. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, damn it.
He wanted herhere. He wanted her here in his bed, writhing under him, arching her back to meet his thrusts, touching his scarred chest with her delicate fingers, screaming his name as her body exploded against his. He wanted her musical voice, her inquisitive green eyes, her strawberry-blonde hair, her freckled face. He wanted her working on her book in the study over the garage that he’d built for her. He wanted her coming and going, making coffee in his kitchen, eating Coq au Vin in front of thefire, taking hikes, and collecting samples. He wanted her to wear his bathrobe when they got caught in the rain and fall asleep in his bed every night and wake up there every morning. He wanted her in his life. He wanted her in his life the way he’d imagined it a million times as he mastered control over his body and planned a way to be with her. He had worked for her, planned for her. He loved her, worshipped her. He would die for her, but he wanted to live for her. And damn it, he had waited long enough.
And now…now…all she could see was a monster. She didn’t want him. And even if she did, she wouldn’t give in to her longing.
He sobbed at the unfairness of it, in frustration and with deep grief, bowing his head and resting it on his knees in despair.
She didn’t call you a monster.
It was a small voice that rose from the fragile depths of his battered heart.
What?
When you were inside, she didn’t call you a monster again.
She said her heart was broken!
It isn’t. If it was, yours would be too.
She told me to leave Carlisle!
She’s upset.
She said she’d let it die inside!
It can’t die. You’re bound. For what is bound cannot be broken.
He ran his hands through his hair in despair.
She didn’t call you a monster again, the small voice insisted.
So what?
So there’s hope.
He got out of bed and stalked to the windows, considering this, seeing the possibility in it. She had looked so sad, so deeply grieved standing alone in the tall grasses. But she had touchedhim gently, not recoiled. She had met his eyes, not drawn away. She hadn’t looked disgusted or frightened. He recognized her expression, in fact. He’d seen it somewhere, once upon a time. Where? Where had he seen it?
And then he knew.
Darcy’s lips had been open and soft, in spite of her sorrow. Just like his mother’s had been the fateful night his father returned.
She still loves me.
His eyes burned, and he closed them, taking a deep, cleansing breath. The first he’d managed since Darcy left him this morning.
So there’s hope.
He took yet another deep breath and felt himself surrender to the binding. It was strong. It would hold. He would give her space. And eventually they would find their way back to each other.
2
To say he didn’t sleep well would have been a gross understatement.
He didn’t sleep at all.
The tricky thing about the word hope, he realized as he stared at the shadows of branches on his bedroom ceiling for most of the night, was that it was laced with as much uncertainty as positivity. And by midnight, hope had become Jack’s least favorite word, his enemy. Hope meant that Darcy wasn’t by his side, meant that for the foreseeable future she wouldn’t be by his side, meant that things might not work out for them in the end, regardless of their attraction, regardless of their feelings, regardless of the binding.
