by Sybil Bartel
“All right,” she agreed, giving me a layer of redemption I didn’t deserve.
“Go to sleep.” I could feel her exhaustion like I could feel my own.
“Okay,” she whispered.
But her body didn’t relax, her breathing didn’t even out, and she didn’t reach for me like she used to. I’d been waiting for this moment, just to have her in my arms, but I wasn’t drawing a deep breath of relief or willingly drowning in her scent.
I was losing my goddamn mind.
I wanted to fuck her.
Not take her, not tend to her, not even give her a release. I wanted to fucking destroy her. The half of my brain consumed with rage wanted to pound so goddamn deep inside her, it wouldn’t matter who the fuck I’d become or what she’d been through. I wanted to fuck her so goddamn hard, I’d erase every fucking piece of shit she’d had between her legs. I wanted to replace every goddamn memory for both of us.
But I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t realize if I touched her now, I’d fucking break her.
So I lay there impotent while she submitted to my bullshit lies. I wasn’t ever going to fuck her again. I couldn’t. If I touched her like that, it’d kill us both.
My arm around her waist, knowing she was stabbed and scarred under her shirt, I hoped to God she fell asleep. Maybe sleep for her wouldn’t be a nightmare like it was for me. Maybe she wouldn’t relive the shit she did in that goddamn clubhouse.
“Stop,” she whispered.
The man I’d become came back. “I’m not doing shit.”
She called me on my lie. “You’re thinkin’.”
“If you’re awake, you’re thinking. There’s no escaping that.” I’d learned that the second I’d walked away from her bloody body in that goddamn house in the Glades.
She was quiet a beat. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Not fucking ever.
“If—”
“The past is dead. We’re done rehashing it. We can’t change it.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes.” No. I didn’t fucking know.
“So we just, what? Move forward, pretend it didn’t happen?”
If that’s what it took. “Yes.”
“What if I don’t know how to do that?”
“If I can do it, you can do it.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she whispered tentatively. “If you can do it. You’re still angry at me.”
“I’m not angry at you anymore.” The lie tasted as bitter as the truth. I was still angry with her for fucking other men. But not nearly as enraged as I was at Hawkins and every piece of shit who’d ever touched her or given her drugs. “I’m fucking pissed at everyone else.”
She was quiet a full minute. Then, “You can’t do that, Tarquin. You can’t live with that anger.”
I fucking knew that. It was eating me alive. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Like you’re not worryin’ about me?” she challenged as she glanced over her shoulder at me.
I didn’t respond.
She let out a half laugh, half snort. “Thought so.”
“You even manage to argue with me when I don’t say a damn word.”
“Because I can tell what you’re thinkin’,” she added flippantly before her tone sobered. “I mean, I used to be able to… you know, always tell.”
She still could. No one knew me like she did. The truth of the starkness of that reality drove my next thought to bleed out of my mouth. “I fucking missed talking to you.”
Every muscle in her body tensed.
I wasn’t going to apologize for telling her how I felt, even though she deserved a lifetime of them from me.
Instead, I threw out a command. “Go to sleep.” Putting a couple inches of distance between us, I gave her some space, but I selfishly didn’t let go of her.
For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t even react to my small physical movement that cut a chasm between us, and I fucking hated it. I hated her nonresponse and her stiffness. I hated her body not curved into mine, and I fucking hated every goddamn asshole who’d ever touched her.
Touching my lips to her hair, I inhaled deep. “Sleep, woman,” I rasped, my voice thick with seven years I couldn’t undo.
She shifted, and her hair fell all around her as she looked up at the ceiling. “Can I ask you somethin’?”
Even underweight and a week off detox, she was still so goddamn beautiful. “Yeah.” Jesus, I missed lying next to her.
Her eyes met mine in the dark. “Without you gettin’ mad?”
“Yes.” Fuck. No. Probably not.
For two breaths she lay there. Then her voice came out hesitant. “So did you?”
My hand absently fisted on my empty palm. For seven years I carried that carved piece of wood everywhere because it had her DNA on it and it was the closest I could get to her. It was also my reminder of what I’d let happen. As long as I had that carved flame in my hand, I knew what I was.
“Did I what?” I asked, but I knew I wasn’t going to like her answer.
“Light a candle that day,” she barely whispered.
My heart fucking stopped.
Ten minutes ago, I thought I’d hit my capacity for guilt. Ten seconds ago, I thought I knew what kind of man I was.
I was wrong.
I was so much fucking worse.
“No,” I admitted.
I’d never lit a goddamn candle. The one thing she’d asked of me. Dying, giving her life for mine, and I hadn’t lit a fucking candle for our unborn kid.
“But you named yourself Candle?” she asked, her quiet voice not holding even an ounce of the hatred I deserved.
I didn’t answer.
I closed my eyes and choked on regret, because the words I needed to say stuck in my throat.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t fucking say the goddamn words.
I’m sorry.
I’m so goddamn sorry.
For five minutes, she lay still as fuck.
She should hate me.
She should get up and walk the fuck out and never look back.
But she didn’t.
Because she never did what was good for her where I was concerned. Just like seven years ago when I was facing down twelve armed bikers, she didn’t fucking run away.
She rolled over, inhaled deep, then she settled in.
She goddamn put me first.
Again.
Ten minutes later, her breathing evened out and she was asleep.
I let myself have the moment. I let myself remember every night I got to hold her in my arms in that godforsaken cabin.
Then I took the memories, got up, and walked out.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I fell asleep peacefully.
But then the bed stirred and I felt him get up.
Forcing myself not to reach for him, praying he was just getting up to use the bathroom, I held my breath.
But he walked right out of the bedroom.
A few seconds later, I heard him pick up his keys, and a second after that, the front door opened and closed.
Tears welled, and I lay there.
I knew he was mad at me for asking about the candle. I knew he was mad about what he saw in that clubhouse. I knew he blamed himself for my bruises. He probably blamed himself for all of it, but I was the one who’d stayed all those years.
He’d been right. He could’ve taken care of himself against Daddy. But what was done was done, and I didn’t want to think about it anymore.
I was too tired to think about anything.
With the scent of him all around me, I rolled over and breathed in deep, because I never thought I’d get to smell him again. His soap, his musk, the way he still smelled like an early morning in the Glades before the sun rose, like dew-covered earth and grass that was fresh and full of promise—Tarquin was home to me. Nothing smelled better. Even his anger had a scent, and Lord help me, I lo
ved that too.
I loved all of him.
My heart was branded with him as sure as the summer heat in the Glades. That would never change, but I didn’t know how to reconcile a single thing between us. I couldn’t stop him from taking off every time he was angry. I couldn’t make him not be mad, and I couldn’t undo him seeing what he did when he’d come for me. I couldn’t make him forgive me for that.
I couldn’t even ask.
The only way I knew how to move forward was for him to forgive himself and me to forgive myself.
But how did you do that?
How did you forget so many years?
We were both victims—victims of two horrible, awful madmen, except I didn’t fully grasp that seven years ago when I walked into Mama’s house. But I did know back then that Tarquin wasn’t a man who was fully equipped to go up against a monster like Stone Hawkins. Yet I let him walk away by himself anyway. That part was all my fault, and I’d have to live with that.
In the end, Tarquin had fought the battle and won. Or maybe it was the man he’d become. Maybe it was Candle who’d prevailed. It didn’t matter. Here we were, both of us alive, and until a little bit ago, in the same room, breathing the same air. Except we’d still been miles apart, and I didn’t want that distance between us anymore.
I never should’ve asked that stupid question about the candle. I didn’t even know why it mattered anymore if I wasn’t gonna believe in Jesus. Our baby lost his life, and no lit candle for his little soul was gonna bring him back. And I was sure it’d been a boy. The second I realized I was carrying, I felt his little soul like I could feel Tarquin’s, and I just knew. It had to be a boy growing inside me.
Feeling that loss all over again, a tear fell, then another.
Forcing myself to suck in a deep breath, I pushed it all back down. I didn’t want to cry anymore for the things I’d lost. I didn’t want to drown in the memories of us in the Glades when we’d been happy.
My suffering wasn’t unique, and there were people out there who had it way worse than me and life still carried on. My nana always said life was for the living. And that’s what I needed to do.
Keep living.
Swiping my face, telling myself to count the blessings I did have, I stared at the clock and prayed to whoever would listen for something I never thought I’d be asking for.
I wanted Tarquin to find peace, even if that meant he had to do it away from me.
I just wanted him to find peace.
I didn’t know what time I fell back asleep, but it was the scent of orange blossoms that first woke me right as the sun was starting to rise. Hearing movement in the living room, I pushed back the warm covers and reluctantly got out of bed.
I saw a flickering glow before I got all the way down the hall, but when I stepped into the living room, I could not believe what I was seeing.
Candles.
Dozens, if not hundreds of them.
Covering the coffee table, the side tables, the breakfast counter, the floor—they were everywhere, and it smelled like the orange blossoms in the groves we’d hidden in years ago.
Tears welled, and I looked at Tarquin, who was lighting a grouping of the little votives on the floor by the TV. “What are you doing?”
Crouching in his jeans and T-shirt, he flicked the lighter in his hand. “Lighting a candle.”
Fighting tears, I barely kept my voice even. “This is a lot more than just a candle.”
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t even look at me. He moved to the last grouping he had set up on the floor in front of the glass slider doors that looked out over the backyard and the ocean beyond.
Flickering light everywhere, it was beautiful. And so very heartbreaking because I knew exactly what drove him to do this.
My heart in my throat, still shocked by what he’d done, I took in the crushingly beautiful scene in front of me. “Where did you get all these candles in the middle of the night?”
“A few different twenty-four-hour stores,” he answered absently as he finished lighting the last of them.
A tear slid down my cheek. “This is a lot of candles.”
His lighter made one more flick, then he rose to his full height and looked at me. Candlelight dancing across his face, pain in his eyes, his arms hung loose at his sides. “I made a lot of mistakes.”
I had to press my hands over my mouth a moment to keep me from bursting into tears. When I could speak, I said the truth. “We both did.”
“You only made one,” he corrected.
Sweet mercy, I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to hear him tell me I’d broken our bond. I knew what I’d done. I carried that burden so deep it cut my soul into shreds I’d never put back together, but oh dear heavens, I didn’t think I could handle hearing him say it. But I couldn’t deny him the words either.
“Dare I ask?” I was a coward.
No hesitation, he said the very last thing I was expecting. “Trusting me.”
I was wrong.
About every single thing.
The ache in my heart that I didn’t think could break any worse shattered into fragments that mocked every single painful thing in my life. Heartbroken beyond words, speechless that the one person in this world that I knew, I knew, was without a doubt the most selfless person I’d ever met, to hear him think he was untrustworthy was too painful to bear.
My heart broken, my world sideways, I gave him the truest words I had. “You were the only thing I ever did right.”
“Don’t,” he barked before catching himself and lowering his voice. “Do not say that.”
Not knowing if I was looking at the boy from the swamp, the Ranger, or the biker, I shivered in the candlelit warmth.
His eyebrows drew together in anger. “You’re cold.”
The contraction blended his words, but in that moment, I knew who I was looking at. “I don’t know how to be warm anymore, Tarquin.”
Dwarfing his small living room, more so than the first time I saw him upright, I was struck by his sheer size. He was even taller than seven years ago. And bigger, everywhere. There was no mistaking it, the imposing, commanding alpha stalking toward me was all man.
Closing the distance between us, he pulled his T-shirt over his head, and for a heart-stopping second, he stood before me.
For the first time in seven long years, by the light of hundreds of candles and the morning sun rising from the ocean, I got my first real look at him.
Except he wasn’t my Tarquin anymore.
The man before me was covered in tattoos and scars and regret.
He was so heartbreakingly beautiful, it crushed me just to look at him. But then he put his shirt over my head, and what he said next crushed my soul.
“I do not want you to be cold ever again.”
“Tarquin,” I whispered through tears.
Pulling me into the strength of his huge arms and solid chest, he buried his face in my hair. “I’m sorry.” His voice caught. “I’m so damn sorry.”
Holding her too tight, I breathed deep and did what I should’ve done a week ago.
I fucking apologized.
“I’m sorry.” My voice broke. “I’m so damn sorry.”
Letting out a tormented cry, her small-as-fuck arms wrapped around my neck, and she clung to me.
“Ask me again,” I ordered like a fucking prick, like I had any kind of right. “Ask me what you did last night.”
She cried harder.
“Ask me again,” I demanded.
Her hands gripping my hair, her shaking body pressed into mine, she didn’t ask the question, she cried it out on an anguished sob. “Did you light a candle?”
“Yes.” Too fucking late, and it would never matter, our unborn child was dead, but she’d wanted me to do it, so here I was, seven years later, trying to fucking redeem myself.
“Tarquin,” she cried.
Her tears fucking breaking me, I started to lose it. “I lit the candles.”
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“I know.” She cried harder.
Alarm spreading, adrenaline like I was in a fucking firefight seeping into every damn muscle, I begged. “Forgive me.”
Holding on to me, sobbing, she didn’t say shit.
I stopped thinking.
I moved.
Grabbing the back of her thighs, picking her up, I didn’t consider the consequences. I didn’t reason. I didn’t calculate. I didn’t think about a damn thing except making her tears stop.
Striding into the bedroom, shoving her against the wall, I didn’t question a single fucking action.
My mouth slammed over hers.
She gasped.
I drove my tongue in.
No fucking finesse, no restraint, I kissed her.
Except I didn’t fucking kiss her.
I assaulted her.
Taking what I wanted, forcing her tears down my throat, wanting her to stop crying, needing her to fucking forgive me, I drove my tongue through her mouth like a man possessed.
She should’ve slapped me.
But she didn’t.
Wrapping her legs around me, gripping handfuls of my hair, she opened her mouth and she fucking took it—like she always had.
The rage was instant.
Fisting her hair, I yanked her head back.
Face tearstained, lips red and wet, chest heaving, she didn’t look away. Holding my enraged gaze, no anger in her eyes, she stared.
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Did you come when they fucked you?”
Her eyes went wide as hell. “Wh—”
“You fucking heard me. Answer the question.” What the fuck was I doing?
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her expression went nuclear. “Did you come when they sucked your dick?”
“I didn’t fuck a single goddamn pussy.”
“But fuckin’ mouths was okay? That’s your quotient for cheatin’? You didn’t stick your dick in a pussy, only in mouths, so it’s fuckin’ kosher?”
I didn’t know what the fuck kosher or quotient was, and I didn’t care. “I didn’t break my bond to you,” I growled.
“I never kissed another man!” she roared, struggling in my hold. “Put me the fuck down, now.”
Letting go of her legs, I punched the fucking wall by her head.