Page 18 of Light As A Feather
“How are you going to tell me how to live when you’re too afraid to do it yourself?” There’s an impressive restraint in the levelness of his voice despite his flaring pierced nostrils and tightening grip, the snake tattoo on his forearm flexing. “You might as well be the breath in my lungs, the blood pumping in my heart, the fibers of my being that hold me together, because I can’t live without you. I’ve been a goddamned zombie all these years. Searching. Planning. Waiting.For you.It’s all for you. It’s always been for you. All of this isfor us.” His breathing isuneven, his chest rising and falling with great effort. “So, please, tell me. Where have you been all this time while I’ve been sitting in this house with the porch light on?”
I forfeit a long sigh. “Arizona. Georgia. Louisiana. Maine. Everywhere and back again. First, I started heading east. Then, I took a detour south.” Cool liquid sits uncomfortably in my stomach like the details I suddenly feel self-conscious about sharing. My gaze evades his, focusing on the sleek black cabinetry that lines the kitchen. “In between visiting mediums, I decided to go down to Texas—El Paso, Laredo, Presidio.”
“What’s in Texas?” Curiosity pulls him forward, along with his scent that washes over me.
“Family.”
Disbelief darkens the shadows that dance on his face. I have no doubt he knows my mom still lives in the same house.
A deep breath centers me as I prepare to speak about my least favorite topic. “Family on my mom’s side. The ones I never got to meet.” Embarrassment makes me shift in my seat. “I was looking for answers. Got some. Left with new questions.”
New insecurities. Renewed longing.I take a long gulp, trying to sort the swirling emotions that always rise up when I talk about them—a topic that’s always been complicated. The muscle in my chest aches at the loneliness I still feel when it comes to my family, my heritage that was kept from me.
“And how did that go?” he asks cautiously, too familiar with the wounds the jagged fractures of my family have caused me. Stretching across the table, he takes my hand in his.
“Incredible. Heartbreaking. It was everything I thought I’d missed out on and more. The warmth of a close family, the unique connection of blood and culture and language.” My eyes burn at the memories. “They opened their home up to me, welcomed me around their table, invited me into their lives, and what did I give them? A name and a tiny piece of abroken woman who will probably never see again?” Familiar embarrassment heats my skin. The desperation to belong is my greatest weakness in this life.
Well, besides him.
He’s the only source of acceptance I’ve ever known.
The key to my lock, the perfect fit.I stroke my finger across the key tattooed on his inner finger that matches the lock on my chest.
“What does this tattoo mean?” He holds my hand tighter, his curious eyes taking in the blacked-out portion of my wrist, and the flowers and thorns that peek out from under it.
Bitterness has my tongue moving, secrets spilling before I think better of it. “That was a punishment. That was why I stopped calling you.” I shudder at the echo of pain that runs through my arm, the trembling and jumping of my muscles unforgettable, my pleading sobs nearly drowning out the buzzing of the tattoo gun.
“What do you mean, a punishment?” He looks closer, eyes widening when he notices the raised, silvery scarring that catches the light. “Who did this to you?” he demands, as if he can do a damn thing about it.
“Who do you think?” The venom in my voice is unwarranted, and yet it collects on my tongue, dripping from useless fangs that have never been as lethal as they look. All bite, but no follow-through.
“How?” His voice is softer now, not demanding, not even sure if he wants to know the details. But he’s asked, pushed me to share the darkest years of my life with him, so I don’t hold back. “Mid-tattoo, he possessed the artist. Crawled right up on top of the table and held me down while he destroyed the piece he’d already poured an hour into. I tried to get free, pull away, but it only made things worse.” My thumb rubs over the scarred bits from where I struggled and he dug in. “But he left just alittle bit of the tattoo intact, a reminder of what he can do—take.” Tearing my eyes away from the painful reminder, I meet Hawthorne’s gaze.
There, I find the care and sympathy anyone would want to see. Bubbling beneath it is a roiling protectiveness, awakening something hungry and needy within me. With everything that I am, I yearn to reach for him, to open up to him, to reconnect with him, despite the distance of time stretching between us.
The strain is uncomfortable after being huddled in my little box of safety for so long with no attachments except for the malevolent one who refuses to leave my side. This brief remission is the longest I’ve gone without Ivan’s oppressive presence. The levity of it threatens to make my hopes fly high.
Leaning back in my chair, I pull away, shifting my attention to my coffee, where I find the reflection of a woman I hardly recognize—one who’s too easily forgetting the damning consequences of being a fool who dares to hope or want. “And that’s why I didn’t stay long in Texas; it wasn’t safe.” I meet his eyes.
“Apparently no one’s safe with you,” he says dryly.
“Exactly. Nobody is safe with me, especially not you. Ivan is—” Emotion attempts to trap my words again, but I refuse to be silenced by my own body. “Ivan is jealous and spiteful and desperate. He has nothing to lose. He’ll do anything to ensure I’m his andonlyhis. He takes pleasure in reminding me of that.”
“Well, that we have in common.” A wickedly possessive smirk spreads across his pretty lips.
“This isn’t a game, Hawthorne.” My glass meets the wood tabletop in a jarring smack. “The stakes are too high to make this into some pissing contest.”
“That’s not what this is.” Abruptly, he gets to his feet and leans forward on his palms. “This has never been a game to me. I’ve dedicated my whole damn adult life to finding a way to freeyou from his grasp. To allow us to have the future we always dreamed of. The one we deserve.Thisis the moment I’ve been waiting for, and believe me, I’m more than prepared for it.”
“No.” I stand. Although I’m several inches shorter than his six-foot-two stature, my voice eats up that space until my frustration is a match for his. “You just don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.” A rasp of pain enters his voice, pain thatIput there. “Give me the missing pieces of the puzzle so I can help you solve it.”
Isn’t this what every woman dreams of? A man who would do anything for them? And yet, it’s the one thing I can’t bear—the potential of losing him to the thing that’s taken so much already. The possibility stokes a bout of nausea, forcing me to turn away as I try to keep the beverage in my near-empty stomach.
He doesn’t give me the space to breathe, though; his tattooed hand finds my inner elbow as he forces me to face him again. At his proximity, I give ground but find myself pressed against the wall. There’s no escaping the palm that reaches up and captures my cheek or the thumb that slips beneath my chin. There in his hold, I’m captive to the most dangerous thing of all—the unfiltered light of his love. It’s there in the shine of his eyes and the brittle tension of his jaw, threatening to break him.
“Thorne,” I whisper in terror. It’s a horror of adoration. He would never lay a violent hand on me or spew hateful words—those are the threats I learned to handle in my formative years—but this tenderness, this honesty, this selflessness, that’s become so foreign to me. It’s what I truly fear. Above all else, what petrifies me the most is reclaiming his love and then having this taken from me against my will.
