by Anne Malcom
Keltan’s eyes were no longer liquid, but glinting bronze. His hand had stopped idly stroking my jaw; instead it cupped it roughly, frozen.
“Kismet was Pete,” I continued on a whisper. “When I figured out how to get Mom to the hospital, in a taxi—the driver is hopefully burning in Hell for not helping me with my barely conscious mom and two-year-old baby sister because I was short two bucks—he was there. He treated her. He treated us. Saved us.
“And what my father did, as horrible as that was—and it was—without it, my mom wouldn’t have Pete. I wouldn’t. Polly wouldn’t have the only dad she’ll ever know. The only one she needs to know.”
The following silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it was definitely full. The entire time Keltan’s eyes never left mine, and with them he said the things I didn’t want him to say, but also did.
Luckily, he believed in simplicity around the ugly truths too.
“I’m sorry your dad was the most colossal fuckwit on Planet Earth, babe,” he said. “We’ll just hope a semi ran over his broke ass the moment he left you.”
Something around his eyes worked as he said that, but they cleared enough for me to smile easily back, through the memories he managed to yank me out from. I settled back on his chest, the weight of everything not giving me much choice. And he had a nice chest. The nicest, actually.
We lay there for a long time, silent once more. But not silent. The chaos inside both of us didn’t allow for that. But it was nice.
He played with my hair, easily and in such a way that I never wanted him to stop.
Ever.
I fingered the jade green pendant hanging from a leather rope around his neck, next to his dog tags. It was small, carved into a smooth circular shape that curled around itself.
“It’s a pounamu,” he said, resting his hand on mine.
I glanced up at him. “And I’m supposed to know what that means?”
He chuckled and the sound vibrated in his chest before he moved to rest his head on the headboard. I stayed sprawled against the warm and hard expanse of his chest, loath to leave.
Like ever.
“It’s a precious stone to Maori people. Otherwise known as greenstone. Passed down through generations. The longer it’s passed through a family the more mana it has, more prestige,” he explained. “People consider it a symbol of power. Some at least. It’s valuable in large quantities. And it’s a tourist trap now too. You can buy it at any store as a keepsake. But that’s not what it is. For Maori, it’s something more. But for me, personally? It’s peace.”
His eyes glittered with something. They weren’t seeing me. Not in that moment. The demons were back. “It’s stillness. When I was in a desert, filled with blood and explosions and shooting people for no reason other than they were shooting at me, and they were most likely shooting at me because someone else told them to.” He paused. “Or perhaps I was protecting someone. I like to think that. The lives I took weren’t just blood in the sand. There was a reason. The lives they took from me, from Gwen. His life. It was a sacrifice made for something.” His voice was thick and the sound, the sorrow underneath it, scratched at my soul.
He held up the stone. “But this, it was a little bit of home, of family, of peace in the midst of war.” He laughed. “Ironic, I guess, considering the pursuit of peace is the reason for most wars.”
I stared at him. Etched his smell, the feel of his body, the haunted expression on his face, all of it, into my soul. “You’re so much more than you seem,” I whispered.
His hands tightened around me as he grinned. “And what do I seem, Snow?”
I traced his jaw. “I don’t know. Still, I guess.”
“Still waters run deep, baby.”
Coming awake was like emerging from a tub of water. I hovered just below the surface, acknowledging everything that was around me: the furnace at my back, the delicious ache in all my muscles and the tenderness between my legs. I did it all still submerged, still underneath the world that would demand too much from me as soon as I surfaced. It was tempting, to stay there, drowning but peacefully so, enjoying the pleasures of life without the consequences.
But I didn’t.
Drowning was not a long-term plan.
I emerged, sucking in the air that was penetrated by Keltan’s clean, crisp scent and the faint undertone of sex.
The heat of the sunlight streaming in the windows that we’d forgotten to pull the blinds on, touched the areas of my skin not claimed by Keltan, of which there weren’t many. And the touch of that sunlight, that warmth from midsummer California sun, was nothing on the man with his muscled and tattooed arm thrown over my stomach, and his hard body pressed against mine.
I blinked against the rays, frowning at the cloudless sky and the calm sea beyond the sand at my window.
I wasn’t a morning person. That was an understatement. But this morning, I didn’t quite feel the overwhelming urge to commit murder if someone didn’t get me coffee soon.
That quite possibly could have been because of the furnace that was currently spooning me. He somehow sensed I was awake, nuzzling my neck. The scratches of his stubble sent delicious shivers up and down my aching body.
“Morning, Snow,” he rumbled.
I made a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat.
I was down from homicidal, but it didn’t mean I was happy. People who woke up happy were crazy.
Keltan yanked me back into his body, then flipped me quickly so he hovered over me, his chocolate eyes sparkling too much at—I glanced at my alarm—not even seven in the fricking morning!
“You’re crazy,” I said by greeting.
He grinned wider, his hand resting between my neck and collarbone. “And why’s that, Snow? What could I have possibly done in the five seconds you’ve been awake to have you come to that conclusion?”
I frowned at him. And inwardly frowned at myself for the shivers, the delightful shivers elevating my mood even more so with the simple touch at my neck. At the twinkle in his eyes mixed with the velvet of his desire. At the weight of his body on mine. And of the utter fucking male perfection who was currently naked, grinning and on top of me.
“You’re happy,” I said, my voice thankfully not betraying any of my “tingle” thoughts. I was not a “tingle” girl. And Keltan certainly did not need to think he’d created one.
Maybe I was coming down with something.
Mono, I thought hopefully.
“No one should be happy in the morning,” I continued.
The twinkle dimmed in his eyes, although not disappearing completely, just making way for desire and something arguably more intense. His hand moved so the pad of his thumb rubbed against my bottom lip. He leaned down, eyes never leaving mine, his naked flesh imprinting his scent on me.
“Lucy. One, I’m awake. Alive. No one’s shootin’ at me, and I don’t have to get up and shoot at other people,” he murmured. His eyes went faraway for a sliver of a second before snapping back like elastic to the present moment. “So that alone is makin’ me happy.” He paused, leaning down to lay a chaste but somehow intensely erotic closemouthed kiss on my lips. He pushed up slightly so our faces were but a whisper apart.
“Now, instead of dreamin’ about the woman with skin as white as snow, hair as black as night, a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush and a pussy that would start fuckin’ wars—ones I’d fight in and win, by the way,” he added with a hard yet teasing glint to his eyes. “Instead of dreaming of her, I’m waking up with her.” He stroked the side of my face. “I’m literally living my fuckin’ dream waking up to you after fuckin’ you all night. After watching movies with you, laughing with your crazy sister and just bein’ here in your home you’ve filled with black but somehow drenched in color. Not just that, I get to wake up.” His eyes lost all teasing glint. “No one, not me, not anyone, should be just happy about this morning. A man needs to do every fuckin’ thing in his considerable power to not only search for a
word beyond happy, but to find a way to give it to the woman in his arms and make sure she doesn’t leave him. Ever.”
The air, once pleasant and clean and empty apart from scents of him and me and sex, was so full it was like I was under that wake water once more. I could barely breathe through the words, the intensity in them.
Before I could do what my body urged me to do the moment the words settled like lead—run, like I always did—he continued speaking, that time with the velvet back and in a rasp that was pure sex.
“But first. I’m gonna wake you up in a way that’s gonna ensure you wake up happy too, Snow,” he murmured, kissing my neck as his hand trailed down the side of my breasts.
So, I didn’t run.
I stayed still.
And drowned in him once more.
It was after a shower and coffee that I finally found a semblance of rationality. Coffee usually came with a side of rationality. It not only helped chase off sleep, but it helped chase off dreams too.
The dream standing in front of me wearing nothing but faded jeans, unbuttoned, showing off that delicious male V that made women everywhere shudder just a little. His washboard abs and tattoos, as well as his scars, were on display. He leaned against my kitchen counter easily, crossing one ankle over the other and sipped from his own cup. Droplets of water were twinkling on his skin, residue from his own shower.
Okay, his shower was my shower.
I didn’t say reason came in the shower. But I did. Twice.
He was looking at me lazily, but in an alert type of way, the way a fisherman might be content floating on still waters even when he knew a storm was coming, so he waited.
“Fuck,” he muttered, breaking eye contact with me and rubbing the back of his neck.
I squinted at his hair, still in its military-issue buzz cut. I wondered idly about how he would look with it grown out, brushing the nape of his neck.
Not that I’d be around to see that.
“Fuck what?” I asked from my spot across from him.
He raised a brow, eyes twinkling with erotic suggestion. And even though the slightly juvenile response should have irritated me, I found myself swallowing roughly at the reminder of just how well he’d fucked me the previous night. And that morning. And five minutes ago.
But I maintained it. The distance between us in the kitchen, and the emotional distance I was sprinting towards trying to create between now and the sex.
Because it wasn’t just sex. Any idiot, even a stubborn idiot—read: me—would recognize that it was… more.
More equaled bad.
I kept my face impassive and didn’t say a thing, nor did I respond to the look in his eye. I sipped my coffee with that same look, as if I was comfortable in the silence and could stay there forever.
That was a trick of mine. I perfected not only the ice queen persona, but the silence between words in a conversation. Silence was like the prize we all strived for yet rebelled against. Sometimes we wanted silence to make people stop talking, which meant we’d won it. Sometimes we had those awkward, first date silences filled with nerves, but that silence could be lost. But whatever kind, it was best to use it to your advantage, to probe people, mostly men, with the fact that you weren’t afraid of a little silence.
More often than not, they were, hurrying to fill it before it yawned big enough for them to fall right into.
Keltan didn’t seem worried about falling, or speaking, since he kept his eyes on me and was staying silent too.
It was like emotional chicken, and it pissed me right off. And turned me right on.
I wanted to stomp my bare foot, or moan, or make a little sound of frustration. Yet I didn’t. Wouldn’t. The blank stare stayed in place.
Until the dimples arrived. Until he shook his head, placed his coffee cup down on the counter with a grin and was in my space, owning it, within seconds.
Granted, the kitchen wasn’t that big, but man, did he move in a blur.
“Okay, baby, you win,” he murmured, mouth against mine.
I struggled against melting into his touch. My traitorous body rebelled and melted only slightly. My eyes stayed ice.
His were melted chocolate, easy and warm in a way that almost made me forget my decision.
Made me throw away the reasons of why this would be the storm that I’d studiously avoided all my life.
The reasons why not.
Almost.
I stayed silent.
The ice remained.
He shook his head, chuckling slightly as his hands bit into my hips. “You think that’s gonna scare me away, babe?” he asked, voice light. “See, the look you’ve perfected to scare guys away all your life was actually not made for that.” His hand left my hip, going up to brush a hair from my face before trailing down the space on the side of my eye. “I know what it was made for. To scare those fuckers off first. To make sure there was only one man it would rein in. It was made for me, babe.”
His words hit me. Physically. In my chest. Every single one. The surety in them, the easy way he said it. So open, without reservation or any sort of hesitation that such statements weren’t appropriate after such a short time in each other’s company.
That was a jarring combination.
A deadly one.
I swallowed, trying to move from his space, needing distance, physically at least in order to keep the storm away.
The one hand at my hip tightened, not letting me go.
“Nope,” he chided, eyes still twinkling. “You’re not runnin’, babe.”
I glared at him. He didn’t blink. That unnerved me. It was my ultimate glare. It even made Bull pause.
But I gathered myself. I had no choice, after all.
“I’m not running,” I said. “I’m just trying to get some space.”
I struggled in vain once more.
“You don’t need space,” Keltan argued.
I continued to glare but stopped struggling because it was embarrassing, me being helpless. I wasn’t helpless. Or had considered that to be the fact until that night two months ago.
“And what makes you have the delusional thought that you actually know what I want?” I snapped.
His eyes lost a lot of their twinkle and turned deeper. “Because I know you,” he replied seriously.
“You don’t know me,” I argued. “You’ve fucked me. That is not knowing me.”
His jaw hardened and the fingers at my hip increased their pressure. “Don’t do that. Cheapen what last night was. What this morning was. What we are,” he ordered, voice hard.
I didn’t blink. “No. I’m just introducing a little thing called reality. You’re making statements that make me think you’ve lost touch with it.”
He tilted his head. “What? Because I’m sure the woman I’m holding in my hands means more to me than a fuck, as you so gracefully put it?” he asked. He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Babe, when you’ve seen how fuckin’ short this life can be, when your life can depend on simplicity, on instincts that we were born with, you learn to trust those instincts.” His eyes searched mine. “It’s not insanity. It’s going beyond the bullshit and accepting something that’s the reason I’m standing right here today. My gut. And it’s telling me what I’m holding in my hands is what I’ve fought my way through this life for. You think that’s not reality? Well then, fuck reality.”
I stared at him, literally unable to speak. To move. To anything, really.
Run, a small voice instructed.
Too small.
His words echoed through my head.
“This is insane,” I whispered finally.
“Or maybe everything else has been insane up until this point, and this is the only sane thing in this crazy fuckin’ world,” he replied.
I wanted to believe that. To be the heroine in the movie that let those words fill her up, replace the chaos with stillness and let the man take care of her.
But I wasn’t.
I would never let
a man take care of me. Because the last time I tricked myself into thinking a man would, I ended up bloody and broken. The first time I thought that, I watched my mother get bloody and broken. So no, I wouldn’t take things at face value, even if I was fooling myself by thinking I might see beyond the surface and agree with Keltan. That maybe this… connection wasn’t insanity.
Maybe it was clarity.
But I didn’t have time for maybes. I wouldn’t survive the maybe.
I found the strength to extract myself from his arms, and although he squeezed tight before letting go, he did it. Let me go. The way his face lost all emotion was sudden and brutal and hurt more than I would ever admit.
I didn’t break his gaze as I fashioned my own emotionless façade, my strongest one yet.
“You’re so ready to say these things because you’ve just come back from things I can’t even imagine, so—”
“That’s right, you can’t imagine, or even dream in your worst nightmares. So, I wouldn’t try,” he interrupted harshly. “Or use what you think you know about that shit as an excuse for being a coward.”
I blanched but didn’t outwardly react. “I’m not being a coward,” I hissed.
“Sure, I might not know shit about what you went through, but you don’t know anything about my nightmares, Keltan. Nothing. And you don’t get to accuse me of being a coward just because I refuse to let a man I barely know into my life without a second thought. You have no right to do that. Or to push your way in.”
My words were heavy with fire, yet I kept my cool gaze on him. Now that I’d found it, he wasn’t melting me.
His eyes weren’t doing that, though. That smoldering thing. No, they were sharply regarding my own, as if he was trying to dive beyond the words to see what I wasn’t saying.
My skeletons rattled in their closet but stayed put.
“You’re not ready,” he said finally. “You hide it well, babe, especially when you have so much else to distract me. To drown in. I didn’t see.”