by Nichole Van
He’s still here. He cares. He didn’t leave me entirely—
I practically hurled the words from my brain.
Stop it right now!
“Olivia? Please open the door.” The door handle rattled.
NO!
How dare he waltz up here and think he could just say a few nice words and smooth this over!
I was going to tell him off, too.
GO TO HELL, TENNYSON!!
A second.
Two seconds.
Sigh.
Or not.
I couldn’t seem to force the words out of my throat. I stayed silent instead.
Male voices murmured in the hallway.
“Go away, Michael,” Tennyson hissed. “I got this.”
“Not even.” Michael sounded pissy. “You’re the douche who just—”
“Take Olivia’s advice, Michael. Go to hell.”
Silence for a second.
“Olivia? Anima mia?” His voice closer now, as if he were leaning his head against the door. Shattered pain laced each word as he spoke. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what happened. It was a mistake. Please, I have to see you. I have to talk to you. I can’t feel you and it’s driving me insan—”
His voice broke. Half gasp, half sob.
I wiped away a few more tears, blowing air up from my bottom lip.
Trust him to say the right thing.
Figured.
I stood and opened the door, turning around before I could see his face.
If I saw pity and kindness, I would likely crumple.
I didn’t want to crumple. No one likes a crumpler, whether it’s a person or a shirt.
I wanted to be angry and mopey and hurt and crumple-free. I wanted to be Go-to-Hell Olivia, not Weak-Willed-Loser Olivia.
So I faced the blank wall and took several deep breaths.
The door opened and closed. Steps sounded behind me, Tennyson’s cologne eddied with the movement, his breathing labored in the room.
“Olivia? Cara? Are you alright?” The urgency in his voice was impossible to miss. “Are you hurt?”
I frowned. Hurt? Now he worried about hurting me?
Wait. That needed to be said.
“NOW you’re worried about hurting me?!” I hurled the words at the wall, still not trusting myself to turn around.
“I didn’t mean to push you away. It was a terrible, honest mistake. I’m so sorry. Please, you have to believe me. I j-just reacted and then I had a vision and it was so awful I can’t even think straight right now—” The frantic pain in his voice cut me. “Will you please turn around? I need to see you, anima mia. I need to know you’re okay. Please.”
It was the final please that did me in. The sound cut out of his very soul.
I turned around.
Big mistake.
Tennyson stood right behind me, so close he filled my vision.
I saw him in pieces. Tie askew and hair rumpled. Chest heaving. Eyes wet and consequently even more shockingly blue. Lips pressed into a straight line.
His gaze brimmed with sincerity, no wall between me and his soul.
“You . . . you had a vision?” I managed to ask.
He nodded and took a hesitant step forward, halving the distance between us. “Did the daemon . . .?”
“No.” I hadn’t seen any daemon. But then I hadn’t seen any scars in the convention center, either. “I mean, obviously, as I’m standing here talking and not unconscious.”
He visibly relaxed despite the sharpness of my tone.
“You’re okay,” he repeated, chest collapsing. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”
He said the words in a rush—I’mjustsogladyouareokay—breathy and still panicked. Like if he repeated them enough, they would be true.
I did not understand this man.
One minute he was pushing me off him for accidentally touching his lips with mine. The next, he was practically hyperventilating at the thought of me being hurt.
“I’m fine, Tennyson.” I wiped underneath my eyes one last time before folding my arms across my chest. “How about you? You seem a little freaked out right now. What’s going on?”
“I’m so sorry, but I can’t talk about it.” He said the words kindly, but the meaning didn’t change.
I winced.
Of course, he wouldn’t discuss it with me. Too many secrets.
All of my frustration and righteous anger roared to the forefront.
“Okay.” I nodded, teeth clenched. “Well, I don’t have anything further to say to you . . .” I swung my arms, looking anywhere but him. “So, I guess I’ll just be . . .”
I scraped my palms together, the universal sign for I’m outta here. I walked around him, intent on the door.
He frowned, pivoting with me. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go.”
I ignored him, instead reaching for the door handle and pulling.
The door didn’t budge.
Of course, it didn’t.
Because Tennyson ‘Lookie But No Kissie’ D’Angelo had placed his hand on it, right at the level of my head.
“Please don’t go,” he repeated, his lips beside my ear, sending goosebumps skittering down my arms.
I didn’t want those goosebumps. They were excitable goosebumps. They were deceptive little betrayers who wanted me to take a step back into his arms and ensure that Tennyson continued to make more goosebumps . . . so baby goosebumps . . . ehr, goslingbumps?
Basically, they were little goosebump tramps setting me up to be hurt yet again by the man behind me.
“You’re upset—”
“UPSET?! You think?” I half-shouted and turned around to face him, rubbing my arms, forcing those dumb goosebumps down.
The goosebumps protested; they were invested in all this, stupid things.
It didn’t help that Tennyson still caged me between his arms. He was all I could see. I leaned against the door and I crossed my arms, as if that could protect me from him.
Tennyson looked genuinely confused. “Please. Let’s talk about this. Don’t leave.”
Ah, men.
Sometimes their naivety was cute.
“Uhmm, what is there to say? You just rejected me on national television.” I waved my hand in the general direction of the stage. “Sorry that I’m not particularly interested in sticking around for the obligatory after-rejection formalities.”
Tennyson froze.
I huffed. “Ya know, I accidentally kissed you and then you threw me off like a dirty towel and pushed me away. That rejection.”
“As I keep saying, you misunderstood my actions. I didn’t reject you, Olivia—”
“Of course, you didn’t.” My tone was perhaps a little sarcastic.
“I didn’t!”
“So you’re telling me you’re not standing here gearing up for the whole Olivia-I-think-you’re-a-great-gal-but speech”—my tone morphed into a lot of sarcasm— “because you’ve already given me that speech once. No need to rehash it; I have it memorized. I know you expect me to listen and act all noble and understanding when all I really want to do is smash things . . . so yeah, I’m going to take a pass. Just because you can’t feel my emotions doesn’t mean I don’t have them.”
I threw the words at him.
He flinched.
“Again, I didn’t reject you,” he repeated, voice firm and deadly serious. “I would never reject you. I adore you too much to reject you.”
“Adore me?!” A burst of disbelieving laughter escaped me before I could stop it. “What are you talking about, Tennyson?”
“I adore you, anima mia.” He said the words emphatically, like they were incredibly obvious.
I shook my head. “True adoration involves more than just words, Tennyson. I’ve tried to be a friend to you, and I trusted you to be mine. But then you got all kissy and handsy—which, yeah, I understand was just part of the whole ‘Tennyson D’Angelo Boyfriend Show’ but
the second I did anything other than just accept your physical affection, you freak out on me. I’m tired of these mind games—”
“I. Adore. You. Olivia Hawking.” Tennyson cut me off, leaning forward, keeping me caged. “I adore the way your quirky mind thinks. I adore your throaty laugh. I adore the sweetness of your smile.” His eyes dragged over my body—legs, waist, chest, lips—pupils dilating, expression heating. “I adore everything about you.”
Gaaaah!
My heart lurched into my throat and those dumb goosebumps flared back to life.
I mentally fanned myself.
Wow. That was H.O.T.
I gave myself a little shake.
No. No!
I was not falling for his sweet guy routine this time.
“Prove it,” I countered.
His expression morphed to wary. “What do you mean?”
“Prove you adore me. Prove you adore”—I ran my hands down both sides of my body—“everything.”
“What?”
“I’m calling your bluff. Usually feelings of adoration lead to physical actions.”
He lifted one hand off the door and dragged his thumb across his lower lip. “You want me to kiss you? To prove that I adore you?” His gaze flicked to my mouth.
“Kissing is sort of the general initial standard by which romantic adoration is assessed. So, yes, I would like that. I accidentally kissed you. You pushed me away, making me feel decidedly un-adored. I’m now giving you a chance to make this right.”
He closed his eyes, chest deflating. “Anima—”
“STOP calling me that! I don’t want to be your anima, your friend.” I pointed at my arms, voice rising. “These goosebumps want more than friendship, Tennyson!”
Emotions flickered across his face—wonder, exasperation, humor until settling on determination.
His blue eyes lasered through me. “You are my anima, Olivia Hawking.”
I rolled my eyes. “Enough with the friendship crap—”
He pressed closer. “I lied.”
“What?”
“I lied. Anima has nothing to do with friendship. Anima mia, you are my soul—” His voice broke again, gaze going too bright. “Anima mia . . . my soul. YOU.”
I froze—body, brain, thoughts, goosebumps. Everything came to a grinding halt.
Surely I had just heard that wrong?
“Wait.” I held up a hand. “Just to clarify . . . all this time, you’ve been calling me your soul?”
He nodded.
“Your anima mia?”
He nodded again.
Whoa.
My brain effectively said huhnnnnnnnn for a solid fifteen seconds. I scrambled to recalibrate my understanding of the last two weeks.
Nope.
I got nothing.
Finally, I blinked and asked for clarification. “But . . . but . . . why?”
“Because it’s the truth,” he murmured. “Sei per sempre e sempre, la anima mia. You are forever and always, my soul.”
I licked my lips.
His eyes followed the motion.
His hand was still on the door beside my head. His eyes warmed and his entire body canted toward mine. As if he couldn’t help himself. As if he needed to be closer to me.
I didn’t want to release my anger. I wanted to make him suffer and beg for my forgiveness, but my soul?
MY SOUL?!
He had been calling me that practically since day one?
“Why did you start calling me your soul? You didn’t know me. You barely know me.”
His expression melted into hearts and stars. He flicked his eyes up and down my body. “Cara mia, you forget. I’m a psychic. I’ve seen you in my future.”
Oh!
His free hand snaked around my waist, and he pulled our bodies together, his face buried in the space between my jaw and shoulder.
“I’ve seen us together for months now,” he whispered in my ear. “You and only you. Never anyone else who has owned me like you have. I adored you before I met you. I knew you would come into my life and that I would fall for you.”
How was my poor hungry heart supposed to resist him now?!
My arms went around him and held on tight to his shoulders. Even my appendages were helpless to withstand him.
Hot People. Grrrr.
I may have also sighed into the glorious heat of his lean body.
“I’m so sorry, Olivia,” he whispered. “I hate that I’ve made you upset. I hate that a single action on my part would make you feel unwanted or un-adored.”
Tears pricked my eyes again. He definitely had a good line, but it was difficult to believe it anymore. If he had seen me in his life and he adored me, why all the weird friend-zoning crap?
I was back to Confused Olivia.
“Then make it up to me,” I said. “Kiss me.”
He shook his head, the movement rocking my body. “I can’t.”
“Please.”
Another head shake.
“Can’t or won’t?” I asked.
A pause.
“Won’t,” he whispered.
Frustration flooded me.
“I’m officially rejecting your excuse here, Tennyson.” I pushed against his shoulders. He stood upright and pulled away from me, instantly respecting my desire for space. “You say you won’t kiss me, but without an explanation, it’s hard to buy the rest of what you’re trying to sell. It makes no sense.”
He tugged a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, sending it everywhere. He gestured helplessly toward me before settling both hands on his hips.
“I won’t hurt you.” His eyes drilled into me.
“Riiight.” I drawled the word. “Because kissing is so painful and this—” I motioned at the space between us. “—is so not painful.” I shook my head. “When you get a real excuse, let me know.”
I turned again to leave.
“I’m desperate to kiss you, Olivia.”
His words stopped me, my hand on the doorknob. Because . . . goosebumps.
“You have no idea how much,” he continued. “You’re so beautiful and perfect and I adore every part of you. But . . . I won’t hurt you. I refuse.”
Something about his tone . . . the anguish in his words.
Slowly, I rotated back to face him. “Ooookay. So . . . kissing will hurt me. Not just emotionally, but physically.”
He sighed. Looked away. And then nodded.
I sensed that the admission cost him.
“Define . . . hurt,” I said.
Silence. He still refused to meet my gaze.
It hit me hard. My hand flew up to my mouth. There was only one level of hurt that would cause this much reticence.
“You think you’ll kill me. You think that if you kiss me, somehow . . . I will die.”
More silence of the deafening variety.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
My mind churned and raced, putting together the puzzle pieces of our conversation, trying to catch up.
“You saw. You saw in one of your visions what happens if you kiss me. And I die.”
“Olivia—”
“Tell me.” I sliced the air with my hand.
We stared each other down.
“I won’t hurt you,” he repeated, almost to himself this time.
A thought hit me. “Does it have something to do with the curse? Or maybe the chain? You were pretty freaked out about it on the airplane.”
He laced both hands into his hair and stared at the ceiling, avoiding my gaze.
“I think you’re trying to protect me,” I continued, “but I don’t want to be protected.”
“It’s not that simple, Olivia.” Tone stern. “I know what happens when people know when or how they might die. This isn’t my first rodeo with a situation like this.”
“You’ve already told me the two most important facts.” I ticked on my fingers. “We kiss. I die. How are the specifics going to make it worse?”
�
��I’ve seen what happens, Olivia. I lived this in Afghanistan.”
“You can’t extrapolate a war situation as being synonymous with this one. They’re not the same.”
“I’m not going to have the burden of this on me.” His tone rose.
“It’s my life, Tennyson. My choice. My burden. Mine.” I tapped my chest. “Tell me. Tell me what you’ve seen about me. Tell me why I’m your anima mia.”
He paused. He stalled.
But he did tell me.
He paced and recounted his visions.
All of them.
The chains and his obsessive thoughts about falling.
The vision of us kissing and the daemon tearing us apart before stabbing me.
“So you’re saying I turn into a badass ninja and fight the daemon?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“And you are only now telling me this? Tenn, you have to know I have no ninja skills. This body—” I swept a hand down my curvy form. “—don’t do ninja. Sumo, maybe. Ninja?”
“Stop it.” He growled and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me against him again. “There is nothing sumo about you. Your body is perfect, just as it is. Have you not noticed how much I adore it? How I’m helpless to not touch you, even knowing the potential consequences.”
I might have been inclined to protest, but the heat in his eyes and possessive hold of his hands as he spoke shut my mouth.
Instead, I swallowed.
“I want you to kiss me.” I meant to speak to his eyes, but my gaze had locked on his lips, and I was having a hard time thinking about anything else.
Those trampy goosebumps added their own enthusiastic voices.
“Olivia—”
“No.” I placed a finger over his lips. “You have to know how much I adore you. I wish you could feel it.”
The warmth of his breath hummed across my already hyperactive nerves.
“You’re destroying me, Olivia,” he moaned softly. “You have no idea how much I wish I could feel your emotions, too.”
He brushed his lips down my finger, nibbling.
His actions effectively fried my brain cells.
“Kiss me then,” I repeated. “You can’t feel my affection, but I can give you the next best thing. We already kissed on the stage and nothing happened.”
“Olivia . . . I couldn’t live with myself. If I caused your death, it would literally destroy me.” His lips warmed my fingers as he spoke. He cupped my hand in his, continuing to kiss his way down my palm.