A Brutal Tenderness

by Marata Eros

  I nod, I knew it could happen eventually. All of us need to get past the savage drama of the event. We finally have. I move my gaze to the only surface without rose bowls filled with fragrant blooms.

  Three crystal vases stand on the coffee table in a triangular formation, a silver balloon in the middle. It hangs in the air, suspended, and something light is tied to the end of the silver ribbon attached to it. It glitters like a piece of shimmering ice, glacial.

  I look at Jewell, then tilt my head toward the stand of pale lavender flowers.

  In the haze from the candlelight, they appear silver.

  Jewell’s eyes follow my movement, and she stands frozen. Then, in torturous slow motion, Jewell turns back to me.

  “What is that?” she asks with quiet intensity. I search eyes the dark green of the forest, candlelight washing her like burnished amber, and for the third time in my life I feel tears burn for release.

  The first were for Faith.

  The second were for Jewell.

  And now . . . it’s for joy.

  I hold my emotions tightly, inside that place all men have, guarded, secret . . . like an underground spring.

  Jewell moves forward like she’s underwater toward the symbol of my love, and I quietly follow. She reaches it, stretching out her hand, then snatching it back.

  I tense unbearably for a lingering fraction of time.

  Her hand moves to her throat, her eyes to mine.

  I reach out and unknot the tie and the balloon floats up to the ten-foot ceiling, hanging above us like a moon made of tinsel.

  I kneel and Jewell gasps at my gesture.

  I’m not the subservient type.

  I can’t think of anything I won’t do for Jewell.

  The tears slip out of her eyes, falling on my hands as I reach for her left.

  “Jewell,” I say, my eyes holding hers, the tears cascading down her face and falling on my skin like warm happiness.

  “Yes,” she whispers, though she knows.

  The quiet stretches, and I let the moment swell, build . . . lingering between us in the molten air.

  “Be my wife,” I say. Then I look down at the polished wood floor and suck in a huge breath. My eyes lift and I look at her again.

  I grab hope like a lifeline, the ground rushing up to meet me as I jump.

  “Please,” I add. My voice has a catch in it, and then suddenly I’m sure she’ll say no.

  She doesn’t.

  I never land like I dread. Instead, those small arms that come around me feel so strong.

  So right.

  I stand with Jewell in my arms, her face looking down at me, my arms locked around her waist.

  “Absolutely,” she says with a conviction that causes some of that standing water in my eyes to fall. Jewell stares at my face, mesmerized. I blink it away and smile.

  Somehow her answer is so much better than yes.

  I slip the ring on her finger and it fits perfectly.

  It’s emerald cut, the facets hidden, the center appearing without end, bottomless.

  Like my love for her.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says softly.

  I feel crushingly lucky. “Like you,” I say automatically.

  She shakes her head, and I open my mouth to defend what I say, but Jewell presses a finger to my lips.

  “No, Cas, like you.”

  We let the candles burn out as we attend to other things.

  I nod at Clearwater, and his night-vision state-of-the-art glasses glint under the streetlight as I pass, his fake cigarette glowing as he regards me.

  I bound up the concrete steps, the borders of which have a curved swale at the ends that hold terra-cotta pots overflowing with flowers that Jewell’s planted.

  I smile as I unlock the door and quietly shut it behind me. I allow my eyes to grow accustomed to my surroundings and scan the perimeter, by sheer habit alone. I’ve been gone on a case for two weeks.

  Skype is underrated.

  I slip quietly into the bedroom we share and see Jewell lying there. Moonlight pours through the sheer curtains as warm fragrant air wafts in with the breeze, bathing . . . silvering her with the night.

  My eyes caress her like the light does. I start at her hair that’s spilled ink on the white pillow, running down over the pale cami she wears, my eyes skidding to a stop at her round ass, the panties hiked up and revealing the shadow of where she splits, lace bordering the smoothness of her skin. I continue my scrutiny, skimming over the barest scar from her injury.

  Her feet are back to beat up.

  I love every inch of her.

  My jeans no longer fit.

  I rip them off and she rolls over.

  We don’t say anything but meet in the middle of our huge bed.

  “Jewell,” I say, my breath already coming hard and fast from the smell of her, the feel.

  She puts her small hand over my mouth. “Shhh . . . don’t talk.”

  I smile underneath her fingertips.

  Okay.

  We don’t talk for half the night.

  Perfect.

  epilogue

  Seven Months Later

  Mirrors are called looking glasses for a reason. They have eyes but no mouths. It is a relief because if they could talk they would tell an intimate tale of our time together, Jewell’s and mine.

  I step away, sans tool belt as today’s job is merely a check of tightness on the installed barres. I can’t have them coming loose when my girl is dancing so close to glass. Kissing close.

  And the barres . . . they’re sort of versatile. Not just for dancing, I think with a secretive smirk.

  Those fuckers are anchored.

  The smell of paint is a positive one, it’s the last thing I’ve done. In stages. Because every time I need to get a task complete and Jewell is in the same space, dancing . . . it’s a wrecking ball of distraction.

  I can watch her dance forever.

  I want to make love to her every time she does.

  I’ll never forget when the contact go-ahead was given over a year ago and I’d seen her audition. Jewell sucker punched me with her essence; not her body, not her looks . . . but who she is captures me as completely as a butterfly in a net.

  Jewell’s eyes snare mine and I stand. She rises into what she calls first position, the soles of her feet curve like beautiful pale pink arcs and she glides, literally glides to where I stand like a dazed dumb ass in the middle of the studio I built for her practice. Though we’ve done some serious practicing of our own in this room. Every barre bore her.

  The floor has held us as we’ve moved against each other, the hard wood digging into me as I beheld ten different Jewells, her image reflected back in the mirrors on all four walls. I’ll never forget the sight of her swaying above me as she rides me.

  A forever memory.

  I swallow and snake my arms around her waist, drawing her tightly against me, giving soft kisses everywhere her black leotard doesn’t cover her.

  She tastes like, vanilla, sweat . . . Jewell. I kiss her like food. I eat at her skin with my lips, nipping at her until she digs her hands into my hair, swaying on her toes.

  “You like it?” I whisper from her neck.

  “I do, Agent Steel,” she says in a throaty whisper, and I don’t know if it’s what I do to her or the room I made for her.

  “Only one week until I begin at SPB.”

  Seattle Pacific Ballet.

  I pull back, looking down into her flushed face, a grin spreading from ear to ear. I tuck back the stubborn deep red twists of hair that spiral free of her bun. “I’m so proud of you, Jewell.” I squeeze her tighter and she gives the small squeal of delight that I love.

  I hear a squeak on the floorboard behind me. I’m instantly pissed that a squeak is present in my floor and simultaneously I put Jewell behind me.

  Someone’s here.

  “Stop doing it standing up, you sluts,” Carlie says with sarcastic enthusiasm. I relax. Jewell’s bo
ssy friend I can manage.

  Carlie slowly spins around, taking in the newly finished studio, her lips softly parted. “Wow,” she says, her face reflecting her pleasure, “this is so completely the bomb, just sayin’.”

  Jewell grins at me, pride pouring out of her, and I can feel my face heat. I didn’t use to have this problem. “Yes, it is,” she agrees.

  I break my awkwardness with, “Timing sucks as usual, Carlie.”

  She flips me the bird and sticks out her tongue at the same time. “So deal. Don’t you have a murderer or someone to catch?”

  I scrub my head, making my short hair stand up, and sigh. “Always.” I watch Jewell look at my hair and think about how she likes to pull it while we’re . . .

  My dick starts getting hard.

  Jewell’s eyes slide to my package and I stifle a groan. She’s very naughty.

  Very.

  I think she’ll need discipline later. We lock eyes and hers glitter with anticipation. She’s not so vanilla anymore. I move closer to her again and grab that wound red hair at the nape of her neck, pulling just shy of pain, and her lips part in a gasp and I swallow the sound in a rough kiss. I lift my head and her lids are half closed. I chuckle. “You okay, babe?”

  Jewell gives me a single languid nod.

  I sigh.

  I turn to Carlie with a scowl.

  She smirks.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Yeah, pal, like the Terminator,” Carlie responds with a witchlike cackle.

  Jewell grins. “Just go, Cas . . .”

  I swat her ass on the way out, and she give me that look. It makes me stop walking. She giggles behind her hand and I keep going.

  I wear a suit I’ve always had on hand. I wear it for fallen feds, other dark angels that secure the nation’s security.

  I never think I’ll need it for this.

  Jewell barely stands in front of me. Her face is pale and my hand rests on the small of her back. I flick my eyes down and look at how I can almost palm her entire back, she’s that small. She fills my hand perfectly.

  Jewell fills my life.

  I listen to her speak, and it’s the hardest thing ever. I can’t save her from the pain of the events of a year ago. I can only offer my quiet presence, solace in the form of my tactile buffeting. That is all.

  It is all that I have.

  My words aren’t eloquent like hers.

  “A year ago today, I was in hiding . . . and in so doing, I helped no one. The following people impacted my life”—Jewell pauses and I squeeze her, the barest amount of pressure—“and died because of their association with me.” I slide my palm over to her hip and give another squeeze.

  I’m here, that grips says.

  She continues, “Though I no longer blame myself for the choices of two very disturbed people . . .”

  That’s a no-shittery, I think, the comment bursting in my brain, interrupting my more or less constant scan of the crowd.

  I see my fellow feds, the stamp of what they are shouting to me.

  As I shout to them.

  I catch the last of her comment. “. . . They believed in me without knowing who I truly was. And for that, I will always be grateful.”

  The crowd stands and I tense. My gaze moves restlessly over the many dots of black. Jewell’s mother stands in the front, wearing a simple crimson dress, and I give her a small nod. She returns my acknowledgment.

  My eyes shift to the grave markers.

  Patrick Boel

  Shelby Richards

  Dancing in death, as in life.

  Sometimes what we do in life transcends our passing. At least, that’s what Jewell believes. I watch impassively as people drop their flowers onto the one-year memorial marking lives that were robbed.

  The flowers pile up in bright dots of color until it looks like a hill of promise.

  Each flower a symbol of remembrance.

  Not to forget their sacrifice.

  I look at Jewell and think for the millionth time she was almost among them. I touch her hair and she turns to me and smiles.

  She wears it down and it tickles my hand as I lay my palm on her back.

  I tow her down to the car, passing many people who wish to talk, touch, and corral Jewell. But no one’s getting a piece of her today.

  Today is closure once more.

  And a new beginning.

  The sky opens up and the pewter clouds boil over with chilled rain, late January known for hovering just above freezing and dumping bucketsful.

  Still the reporters lie in wait.

  Luke steps forward from one of five unmarked black SUVs and opens the door for Jewell, as a mike from a reporter clatters to the ground.

  “Hey!” he says, eyes narrowed on Adams.

  Adams grins. “Oops, sorry about that . . . didn’t see that mike.”

  I grin back at him and he winks.

  Nice.

  I get in beside Jewell as the rain hammers the windows, sliding down in rivulets.

  Jewell leans her head back against my shoulder. Slow color returning to her pale face, the pinched expression evening out.

  I sigh, wiping away the wet tendrils that curl around her jaw. “I’m so proud of you,” I whisper against her temple as Luke slides in the car and pulls away.

  I watch the sheen of tears take hold in those vibrant green eyes. Yet they don’t fall.

  Her eyes search my face. “You think?” she asks tentatively.

  Jewell doesn’t need to cry anymore.

  “I do.” Turning her face into mine, I kiss her, the witnesses melting away. My partner, the reporters, the sad milestone melt into the periphery where they belong.

  I cradle Jewell’s face in my hands, her heat beneath me, all around me, and the world melts away.

  All I have is her now . . . in this moment.

  It’s the only world I need.

  [insert BUY BUTTON for A TERRIBLE LOVE]

  a love letter to my readers

  It’s been four years now since my first book, Death Whispers, was published. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who have supported my writing. Without my readers, I would not have an audience for my work. Many of your e-mails, support via recommendation, encouragement, and critical feedback/reviews have helped me to improve as a writer and as a human being. Words are an inadequate thanks for the depth of my gratitude to you. Please know how much your support has meant and will continue to mean in the future.

  Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  acknowledgments

  I would like to thank:

  You, my reader.

  My husband, who is my biggest supporter.

  Erica Spellman-Silverman: smart, savvy, and devoted don’t

  cover it. Thank you for all you do as my advocate. And the team at Trident Media Group for giving me a chance!

  Lauren, for believing in me.

  Alex, you’ve improved my work; it’s better because of you. Thank you.

  My copyeditor for ABT.

  Beth, my friend.

  Dianne, you keep me sane.

  My Aussie Girl, I love ya.

  Lori.

  Do not quote for publication until verified with finished book. This advance uncorrected reader’s proof is the property of Simon & Schuster. It is being loaned for promotional purposes and review by the recipient and may not be used for any other purpose or transferred to any third party. Simon & Schuster reserves the right to cancel the loan and recall possession of the proof at any time. Any duplication, sale or distribution to the public is a violation of law.

  Pocket Star Books

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imag
ination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Marata Eros All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Pocket Star Books ebook edition August 2013

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  Interior design by Akasha Archer

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  ISBN 978-1-4767-5223-5