Page 65 of Beneath the Hood

It’s heady.

Alluring.

And I find myself wanting to bathe in the temporary confidence he’s dripping onto my skin.

His hand ghosts down until it rests on my chest, the edges of his fingertips teasing the neckline of my top. My stomach tenses, my heart pounding under his palm.

His lips ghost along my ear, his free hand gripping my hip and pulling me tighter against him.

“I love your heart,” he whispers. “I would spend the rest of my lifeworshipingat your feet, so long as I got to experience every beat.”

My body coils tighter and I wait with bated breath to see what he’ll say next. How he’ll take the years of bloody wounds and replace them with his words, one scar at a time.

His eyes meet mine.

My breath whooshes out of me, my heart surging into my throat at the intensity that’s swirling in his gaze.

His hand presses harder against my chest. “Your worth has nothingto do with how you look, Blake. It has to do with who you are.That’swhat makes you beautiful.”

Tears drip off my chin and suddenly, the words of strangers don’t seem to matter as much. Maybe they will again tomorrow, when the high of Jackson’s touch has slipped off my skin.

But right now, the only thing that matters is this.

Right here, with him.

A single word tumbles through my brain, pushing its way into the middle of my chest and slipping into the fissures of my heart.

Love.

32

Jackson

Ihadn’t planned on coming back. Talked myself out of it a thousand times, listed off all the reasons why it was a bad idea. But I couldn’t get the vision of her crumbling out of my head. Of watching her try like hell to hold it together while nobody else gave a damn.

And once it was there, I knew the only way to find some peace was to make sure things were right between us. So that I can be the person in her corner, propping her up and giving support, even when she swears she doesn’t need it.

Still, I waited until my feelings settled into something that was less hurt and more understanding. Besides, I wanted to give everyone else time to leave. We need to be alone for the things I want to talk about.

I pride myself on being able to read people easily, but Blakely has me second-guessing everything I thought I knew. She’s a master of deception, having fine-tuned her persona, threading it so tightly with who she really is that it’s almost indistinguishable.

Almost.

I know it’s unhealthy to be happy with the fact I’m the only one she shows her realness to. But it’s there, warming my insides whether I want it or not. Ilikebeing the one she runs to. Ilikebeing the one who loosens her stitching and lets the mask fall away.

But the problem is that the longer she wears the cloak, the more it sinks into her skin. Mixes with who she is and darkens her soul until she believes her own lies. Until she believestheirs.

My heart feels heavy thinking of all the effort she puts into appeasing the masses. Of obtaining this ridiculous standard of beauty—of life—all so other people will envy something that doesn’t exist.

And maybe that’s why, when I find her sobbing on the marble bathroom floor, there’s an overwhelming need raging through me to show her all the ways she’s truly beautiful.

The ways that can’t be shown with numbers, or products, or edited pictures.

My hands glide down her body, pointing out all the ways her soul shines through her skin, and as I do, the air charges with an electric hum, weaving its way between us, injecting the moment with a thick tension.

I feel her body relax more with every pass of my palm, and when I pause on her stomach, she twists in my arms, her eyes clashing with mine. There are a few moments of silence, her amber gaze sparkling with a watery sheen as she looks at me in a way no one else ever has.

My heart beats with fervor, ramming into my chest.

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