Page 38 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
She let him take it, let him stroke the scars on her wrist with his thumb, let him follow the scars up her arm, his fingers ge
ntle and faintly questioning. It took everything she had to sit still and let him do that, when all her nerves screamed for her to pull away. Like a photo album of living flesh, those scars were full of Technicolor memories. They made her feel ugly, small, and—on really bad days—cursed. She hated those scars with every cell of her body.
No one had ever touched them except her, the doctor who removed the stitches…and now him.
Still without looking at him, she said, “But you’ve got it all wrong. I told you before, you don’t know me. You’ll just have to trust me when I say you’re wrong.”
There was a silence that felt hot and uncomfortable. Then Christian said, “What happened to you to make you hate yourself so much?” and it felt like a punch in the gut.
Grief is a funny thing. Time can temper it, smooth the rough edges that so clawed and gouged in the first raw aftermath of loss, but like Lazarus it can be resurrected, again and again, sometimes with the smallest of invocations. Ember knew all about the soul-eating demon called grief. She knew about the shallowness of sanity, and about how people do and do not deal with the cold reality that life ends.
And she knew that talking about pain did nothing to heal it. Talking only gave it more room to breathe.
She pulled her hand out of Christian’s grasp and covered her face. “Nothing. Please. Nothing.”
His voice gentle, he said, “I wish you’d tell me.”
The heat in her cheeks spread to her ears. Still hiding behind her hands, she whispered, “I’m broken, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m broken and there’s no fixing me. There’s no way to fit all the ugly pieces of my puzzle back together. Please, let it go.”
There was a beat of silence, then Christian reached over and pulled her onto his lap.
Before she could even gasp in shock he had her face cradled between both of his hands.
“I won’t ask again,” he said urgently, his eyes searching hers, “but only because you don’t want me to, not because I don’t want to know, or because I think you’re right about being broken. I don’t think you’re broken, I think you’re wounded, and those are two very different things.”
She stared at him, speechless, acutely aware of the heat and hardness of his body and Corbin in the front seat and the fact that her dress had bunched up and her bare legs were exposed to her upper thighs.
He went on, still with that urgency, “We don’t have to share our sad stories—I told you before, secrets are okay. And I’m not—I’m not even sure how long I’m going to be around, but I do know for sure I want to spend as much time with you as I can. I want to make you happy. I want to see you smile. I can’t explain it in a way you’ll understand and it’s probably crazy, and it’s definitely not in either of our best interests, but…”
He faltered. His breathing had become irregular and so had her own. The way he was looking at her now had her heart climbing up into her throat, threatening to choke her.
“But I want you, September Jones. Broken or wounded or whatever it is that you are, I want you. And I know you want me, too.”
The city passed by the windows in a sideways smear of color, dark and light and completely unnoticed by either one of them. His hands on her face were hot, so hot, and he was radiating heat, too. Along with his scent, his heat washed over her in waves, and for the first time in a very long time, Ember was gripped with the exquisite ache of desire.
“You sure know how to make pretty speeches, Fancypants,” she breathed.
He exhaled, and she realized he’d been holding his breath, waiting for her reaction. He moved his hands from her face to her shoulders, then pulled her against his chest and held her there tightly, his arms encircling her, his cheek resting on the top of her head, his lips on her hair. Through his shirt she felt his heartbeat against her cheek, and she closed her eyes, hearing it throb and pulse, loving the sound of it.
Feeling as if her heart might strangle her, she said into his shirt, “I can’t believe you didn’t end that speech with a kiss.”
She felt his chuckle against her cheek too. It reverberated through his chest, pitched deep and low like a bass drum. He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his.
“There will be kisses, little firecracker, many, many kisses—but you’re going to have to ask for the first one.”
In response to her look of mortification, he added, “Nicely.”
“You want me to ask you to kiss me,” she said flatly.
He nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “It’ll be easy, it’s just three words. ‘Please kiss me.’ How hard is that?”
“How about, ‘please tell me you’re joking,’ instead?”
His grin grew dangerous. “I never joke about kissing, Ember.” He released her chin, reached out, and lightly touched her bare leg just above her ankle. She sucked in a startled breath and froze, ridiculously grateful she’d decided to shave her legs after all.
He said, “There are several things, in fact, that I never joke about, and all of them have to do with pleasuring a woman.”
Holding her gaze, he slid his fingers slowly up her leg, and Ember felt it like a trail of fire on her skin. She was sure if she looked there would be burn marks. A little involuntary shiver went through her.
