Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rowan
Elijah steps through the front threshold as if he’s anticipating an ambush. Not that I can blame him—the last time he walked into this house, his life was turned upside down.
He follows me silently to my bedroom, and upon entering, his eyes immediately seek out the corkboard still hanging ominously on the wall. Only now it is completely empty.
“What?” he whispers, taking a step toward it as if he intends to run his fingertips over it just to double-check.
I should be comforting him. I should be explaining and maybe even panicking a bit. But instead, I’m watching his every move with my brain turned completely to mush.
We may have gotten up, showered, and driven the thirty minutes to my house, but my brain is still right there in Elijah’s bedroom. In my mind’s eye, he’s still sprawled beneath me while he begs me to dig my teeth even further beneath his skin.
“Where did it all go?” he asks directly this time, turning to face me where I stand in the doorway.
“Oh,” I start, shaking my head to rid the horny memories of their place in my brain. “I may have gotten upset and torn it all down. But I still have it all.” I point past him to where the stack of photos and notebook paper sits on my dresser.
Some of the photos are wrinkled, and a few of the papers are ripped at the edges, but other than that, they are in good shape.
Elijah grabs the stack and sits on the foot of my bed. His hands shake slightly as he stares at the top photo—one of him walking across the grass in the middle of the town square.
He eyes it for a moment before he looks back at me. “So… you followed me around and took photos? All because you missed me?”
I sigh, searching for the right words. I want to be honest with him; I’m tired of the lies and the misguidance.
“Yeah, I missed you. But the photos were more of a sense of… ownership, maybe? I’m not quite sure.
I wanted to see what you were doing, I wanted to capture different versions of you, and I needed to be near you.
And it didn’t feel wrong because in my mind, knowing what I know and what we used to be, you’re already mine.
I believed—still believe—that if I had asked you, you would have said yes anyway. ”
“So why didn’t you?” he deadpans. “Ask, I mean.”
“Well, that takes away half the fun,” I murmur. And surprisingly, Elijah laughs.
“Such a weirdo.”
He continues to look through the top few photos, most likely trying to catalog when they were taken, before he comes across the first paper. It’s covered in writing front to back and retells the memory of Benjamin drunk and night swimming.
He was just in his briefs and two seconds from ripping my own underwear from my body. I don’t recall much from the dream, other than his eyes and his insistent hands—the way he looked at me as if I was saving him and condemning him in the same breath.
Elijah reads the paper twice before moving to the next. I move to stand over him, reading a few lines and finding it to be one he had read the first time he found the corkboard:
“Button, tell me. Tell me you’re in love with me too; that all this time we’ve been coming back to each other over and over wasn’t just because I can’t live without you, but you can’t live without me.”
“I have always loved you. I will never love anyone else the way I love you. With this kind of devotion.”
“Button…” Elijah murmurs, and I can see the confusion and apprehension spread across his features.
“That was your nickname back then. I’m not sure why, but that’s what I called you.”
Big hazel eyes flicker up to meet mine, and his brow is creased heavily as he studies me.
“Bluebird,” he says, but I’m not sure what he means. He called me that earlier, too.
“I like them, yes,” I confirm.
Elijah shakes his head but says nothing more. He reads over the front of the page once more before setting it aside.
He reads various dreams—memories—that I have cataloged, including where Aaron has been documented, and he traces the photos of himself with his fingertips. Then, he sets them to the side and takes a deep breath.
“So,” he starts almost cautiously. “This Benjamin character… I gather that he was rather sweet?”
“Yes.” I grin. “He was very sweet and obedient. Most of the time.”
“Submissive? Gentle? Dependent?” His description is accurate, but the words sound borderline resentful. As if he’s judging his past self or resenting him.
“Yes, I believe so. I really only have pleasant memories, so I’m not sure what happened outside of those. But from what I know, I think he relied on me to protect him. To care for him.”
“Oh.” Elijah stands, moving around me on his way to the kitchen. I follow him a moment later and find him drinking from a cup of water.
He’s gripping the countertop, perspiration beading his forehead as he concentrates on his rampant thoughts.
Narrow hips lean thoughtlessly against the marble as if he’s not trying to actively seduce me—but I guess it’s always been easy for him. He’s never had to try.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and he hesitates before he nods slowly.
I watch the internal struggle. From the war inside his eyes to the way his hand shakes slightly around his glass. I want to soothe him, but I’m afraid of pushing too hard or interfering where I shouldn’t.
I planned to guide him and mold him—to show him exactly what it is we are meant to be to each other. But I’m beginning to understand that Elijah is a lot more stubborn and independent than I once thought, and I believe he’ll find any sort of interference to be manipulation.
So instead, I give him room to battle himself, and I watch from several feet away. I’ll be here to clean up the carnage, or to reap the benefits of a war well won. There is nothing more for me to do.
I can love him patiently and in silence. I’ve done it my entire life, after all. I am well-versed in suffering.
“Okay,” Elijah says, successfully startling me from my own thoughts even as my eyes remain forever locked onto him. “We can pretend.”
“Pretend?” I echo, and something around my heart squeezes like a vice.
“Yes. I’m not completely sold on this whole past lovers thing, but I don’t really have another explanation for everything that’s happened between us. Or for the papers you have.” He sighs. “I guess I’m just too much of a realist.”
“So you don’t believe me?” I can hear the defeat in my voice, so I know he can too. Elijah sets his glass on the counter and approaches. A soft, warm palm rests on my hip.
“I find it hard to believe in fate. I want to believe you; I feel something when I’m with you. So, we can keep pushing forward with your theory as our foundation. And I’ll either begin to trust it the way you do, or… well… we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
I search his face. He’s staring up at me like his proposal makes the most sense in this situation, but it doesn’t. Not when all of the proof is so damning, and my heart beats so loudly for him. Not when my teeth have scarred his flesh and my come as soaked into the pores of his skin.
But I digress. I would do anything he asked of me; I would sacrifice a million moments to him and suffer unlimited heartbreak if he demanded it.
My hand finds its home against his cheek, my thumb brushing that inch of skin where his dimple comes out to play when he smiles so sweetly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
I cock my head in question. “Like what?”
“Like I’m breaking your heart.”
I dip my mouth low to meet his, our lips brushing in a way that lights up my entire body. Every nerve sings, every molecule of my being calls out to him.
And he breathes harshly against me, telling me that he feels this too.
“You’re not,” I tell him, and it’s only a half lie. “You’re still here.” With both hands now cupping his jaw, I walk him backward until his back is pressed to the edge of the counter. “Be honest with me, Eli. Did you feel it?”
“Feel what?” he whispers. He knows.
“At your apartment. Did you feel it? How your body remembers mine? How you belong to me? You said you did—but I need to hear it now. I need to hear it when you’re not drunk on pleasure.”
“I…” He doesn’t continue. As if he doesn’t know what to say, or he’s too scared to admit it.
“Tell me, and I’ll agree. Tell me honestly, and we can pretend until you decide what you truly believe.”
Elijah whimpers softly, as if I’m pulling something from him that hurts. I’m a cruel and evil man, and he’s suffering right alongside me.
“I did.” He’s crying again. It’s a soft, quiet sound, but my fingers are growing damp with the falling tears. “Every time you touch me, it feels like I’ve returned home after being away for far too long. It scares me.”
“I’ll protect you, angel. I’d do anything for you. You have no reason to fear me, or this,” I proclaim.
A flash of frustration, of irritation, passes over Elijah’s features. But then they settle back into the pained pleasure they were caught in before.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, Rowan. Just… keep touching me. When you’re touching me—that’s the only time any of this makes sense.”
My hands slide to the back of his neck, where they press heavily on the bandage there. He groans, head tilting back against the pain.
“It’d be an honor,” I say.
I touch him for a long time. So long, in fact, that we don’t resurface into the world around us until the following morning, and Elijah is tearstained and completely exhausted.
Personally, I feel revitalized. As if I’ve drunk several energy drinks, hit the gym, and meditated. But I also haven’t gone to the grocery store in days, and we’re both now starving.
“Let’s go to Tabitha’s Place. I think I’d commit a crime to eat their pancakes right now,” Elijah demands as I wash his hair. His back stays under the stream of hot water, and I’m heavily enjoying the vision of him naked in my shower.