Chapter 17 #2
His gaze lifts to mine. “I got it because she was a child who deserved to think someone watched over her.”
Oh.
My throat tightens.
I keep my finger on the raven. “You never had a chance,” I whisper.
“At what?”
“At not being responsible.”
His expression flinches for a second, and before he can retreat, I lean down and kiss the raven.
His breath stops. “Halston.”
I kiss the black ink again. “What?”
His hand comes to the back of my head. He doesn’t pull. It just rests there. “Nothing,” he whispers, kissing my hair.
I move lower, past the script on his ribs, to the small, broken compass I didn’t see the first time.
“And this?”
“That’s self-explanatory.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s a compass.”
“It’s broken.”
“Yes.”
“Which means it has emotional symbolism, and I’m nosy.”
“You’re many, many things.”
“I’m currently patient.”
His brow lifts.
“Fine. Impatient but invested.”
He looks at the ceiling.
“Warren.”
“I got it in Germany.”
I bite my cheek. Germany has existed in pieces around him. As a training ground and a wound of sorts. A place he mentions and doesn’t explain. The academy, and the apprenticeship.
I sit back a little on his lap.
“Tell me.”
His hand drops from my hair and rests between us.
“I wanted one thing that was mine.” The sentence is flat as he looks at his hands.
“After Marley was born, most things were decided before I got to want them. Our mom left. My dad drank. Bills existed, and Marley needed food, rides, school forms filled out, and a person who remembered parent-teacher conferences.” He swallows.
“I wasn’t her dad, but there wasn’t anyone else doing the job. ”
My chest aches.
I’ve always heard pieces of this from Marley. Hell, I lived some of it. Partially. But she always joked. Warren raised me. Warren packed my lunches. Or the time a teacher was skeptical of Warren signing her permission slip, so she almost wasn’t able to go.
But for him, the story sounds different.
“Baking was the first thing that made sense because it had rules. Time. Temperature. Ratios. If something failed, there was a reason. You could find it, fix it, and try again.”
I swallow. “That sounds like you.”
The corner of his lips tilts. “Yes.”
I touch the compass again. “And Germany?”
“I saved for years. Took jobs I hated. Moved where work was. Sent money back when Marley needed it. When she was old enough, stable enough, I left for training. Apprenticeship first. Then certifications. Then Weinheim.” His eyes flick to mine for the first time. “I was good.”
The way he says it hurts me.
“I know,” I say.
His gaze holds mine for half a second before he looks away again.
“There was a job,” he says. “Small bakery. Old owners serious about bread. Exactly the kind of place I wanted. Not flashy or corporate. No nonsense. They needed someone who could handle production and train staff. I did a trial run for three days.”
“And you were great.”
“I was,” he says confidently this time. “Very good.”
I smile a little. “Sexy confidence. I love that.”
He almost smiles, but it fades.
“They offered me the job.”
My fingers still. “But?”
“I wore short sleeves the last day.”
Everything goes quiet, and his gaze drops to his forearms.
The ink is beautiful. Flowers tucked through black lines. Script. A body that looks like it’s been turned into a map of every place he loved and survived.
“What happened?”
“The wife saw first. Then the husband.” His jaw flexes. “They were polite.”
The word polite feels like a slap. Because of course they were.
“They were in a more conservative area. Said it wasn’t the image they wanted in the front of house. The customers would have certain expectations. That visible tattoos did not reflect the tradition of the bakery.”
“They judged you?”
“Yeah.”
Fury floods through me as my face turns red, and Warren looks at me, surprised.
Warren King, who notices everything, apparently has no idea what to do when someone gets angry on his behalf.
He can learn.
“They were the problem,” I say.
He shrugs. “It was their business.”
“And they were allowed to be wrong in it.”
His eyes narrow. “Halston.”
“No.” I point to his chest. “No scary bread voice. I am furious.”
“I can see that.”
“I hope so.”
“It was years ago.”
“I can be retroactively violent.”
He smiles.
I touch the next tattoo. “And this one?” A snake that curves around the other side of his torso.
His breathing shifts. “After the job.”
I look up and catch him watching my fingers.
“I was angry,” he says.
“What did you do?”
“I worked somewhere else. Got that tattoo.”
“The snake?”
“A reminder.”
“Of what?”
He’s quiet before saying, “To stop mistaking stillness for safety.”
Oh, Warren.
His eyes lift, and I trace the flowers on his arm. “And did you?”
“No.”
I shift back before leaning forward and kissing the tattoo. Once, then twice. His hand closes around my waist.
I lift my head.
He looks at me like I’ve touched something under his skin, and I put one hand on his chest, over the raven. “You shouldn’t have had to hide. Or earn your own life after raising someone else.”
His fingers tighten around my wrist.
“You should have gotten the job.”
He looks away.
“They were lucky to see your work,” I say. “They were stupid not to keep you.”
For a second, when he looks at me, he looks younger. Not soft, not broken, just surprised.
Like no one has ever handed his hurt back to him and said, “this isn’t yours to carry.”
The ache in my chest becomes unbearable.
His hand slides into my hair, and he kisses me.
It’s slower, but still rough. Like he’s trying to say thank you and please don’t do this and I don’t know what to do with all of this all at once.
I kiss him back because I don’t know either.
Because his tattoos are under my hands, and his past is in this room, and he is here with me.
And because I think I’m falling in love with him.
The thought arrives suddenly and quietly. Without fireworks. Just the truth, sitting in the middle of my unfinished apartment with no shoes on.
I think I’m falling in love with Warren King.
A terrible man to choose emotionally, really. Temporary and deeply attached to lists. Suspicious of whimsy. Somehow both emotionally repressed and devastatingly good at making room for my pain.
He’s still kissing me.
And I decide I should panic later.
Right now, his mouth is on mine, and my hands are on his skin, and his body is warm and hard beneath me.
I shift in his lap, and his breath catches.
His hand slides along my waist, then lower over my hip and down the front of my pants where he slowly circles my clit.
I moan as my body answers with heat, and then, without warning, pain.
It’s not a warning cramp or a gentle pull. It’s a sharp, deep twist low in my pelvis that steals my breath.
I freeze, and Warren stops immediately.
His hand lifts away from my body. “Halston?”
I try to breathe, but I can’t.
Another pain follows, worse than the first, hot and sickening and so deep that I fold forward into his chest before I can stop myself.
Tears prick at my eyes.
Immediate tears.
“No,” I whisper.
Warren is completely still under me.
He doesn’t keep touching me. Doesn’t tell me that the pain is normal. Doesn’t say I just really need this right now.
Doesn’t ask questions or yell at me demanding answers.
He sits there, his hands on my back, not moving.
He waits.
I cry harder.
I was warm and wanted and almost brave, and my body has chosen this exact moment to remind me that it gets a vote too.
“Pain?” he asks quietly.
One word.
I nod, pressing a hand low against my abdomen.
“Do you want to get off my lap?” he asks as he kisses my forehead. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes.”
“Can I lift you?”
Another tear slips down my cheek and onto his chest. “Yes.”
He moves carefully. One hand is behind my back, the other under my thigh. He lifts me slowly, watching my face to make sure I’m okay. Like I’m breakable, without making me feel broken. He sets me on the mattress, away from his body, and immediately pulls back.
I curl onto my side.
The pain rolls through me again, and I push my head into my pillow. I make a sound that I hate.
Warren crouches near the mattress. “Can I touch you?”
I shake my head.
He nods once. “Okay.”
He’s not hurt and doesn’t hesitate.
The fact that he’s not making this about him makes me cry even harder.
At some point, when this is over, I’m going to have to process this.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
His expression shifts. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Warren.”
“No.” It’s firmer now. “Don’t apologize.”
“It happens sometimes.” My voice quivers. “With endometriosis. Sex can hurt. Not always. Sometimes it’s fine. And sometimes any type of stimulation causes pain.”
His face remains steady, and he looks angry.
Not at me.
“I know,” he says.
“You know?”
“You told me sex can hurt sometimes when we talked about your flare before.”
“I did?”
He nods. I barely remember. A passing comment, probably.
“I hate this,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I was having fun.”
“I know.”
“I wanted—”
A cramp cuts me off, and I press my face into the pillow again.
Warren’s voice stays low. “Heating pad?”
I nod.
“Second blue bin again?”
He stands, and I hear the bin slide open.
When he finds it, he brings it over to the mattress and plugs it in. “May I place it?”
I nod.
He gently lays it against my lower abdomen, over my leggings.
The warmth starts low and slow. But it’s something.
He disappears again and returns with water, then a packet of gummy worms.
A bag I know is from my super secret stash. The good ones.
The one behind the winter socks and the emergency mascara I bought during a breakdown at CVS.
I stare at him through wet lashes. “How did you find these?”
“I watched you raid that bin the other week.”
“Creep,” I joke.
He shrugs. “Observant.”
“You went into my secret stock.”
“This is an emergency. Pain meds?”
I shake my head, and he grabs the bottle and shakes three pills into his hand, placing them in mine gently before handing me a bottle of water.
When I’m done, he sets the bottle aside and sits on the floor beside the mattress, back against the wall. Close enough for me to reach.