Chapter 9
Later That Night…
“Isn’t this amazing?” I chirp, looking up at the night sky.
“If by amazing,” he rumbles, “you mean insane, then yes, it is amazing.”
I tilt my head where it’s resting on his hard chest and look up at him. “You think this is insane?”
Snowflakes land on his face, in his hair. Even in his eyelashes. They’re super tiny and disappear as soon as they touch his hot skin but leave him all shiny and sparkly. So fucking beautiful. And in the midst of all that, there’s smoke wafting out of his mouth as he takes a drag in.
Then, still looking up, “It’s cold out.”
“So?”
He takes another drag. “So we’re lying on the ground.”
“But—”
“While it’s snowing.”
“But—”
“In the middle of the night.”
“I know but?—”
“In a fucking park that you wanted to walk to,” he keeps going, smoking. “Instead of staying at the hotel room with a perfectly nice bed we could be sleeping in right now. So yeah, it’s pretty fucking insane.”
I’m done with his complaining—which believe it or not, he has done a lot of ever since I said that we’re going out—so I reach out and put a finger on his smoking lips, causing him to finally dip his chin and glance my way.
“First, this is amazing, no doubt about it. Second, lying in the snow while it’s snowing is the only way to enjoy the snow. Think of it as like tanning, only we’re doing it in winter. Third, we didn’t walk here after all because you wouldn’t let us, remember? You insisted that we take a cab. I mean, that’s not how you have a midnight adventure. Especially when you call yourself colder than winter. And you even brought a coat with you and wouldn’t shut up about a winter weather advisory. So I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stares at me for a few moments, his mouth all soft and hot under my cold finger. When he opens it to say something, I smush my finger on his lips. “Oh, and fourth, I’m not sleepy at all. I’m weirdly very energetic right now. So tough luck, big guy, you’re going to have to stay here.”
I smile sweetly and remove my finger before rubbing my cheek on his hard and cozy chest and go back to staring at the frosty moon and pretty snowflakes. I even catch a few in the palm of my hands, watching them melt and sighing.
The arm that’s tucked around me moves and goes up. He buries his fingers in my hair and, fisting it, he pulls my head back and then instead of the cold snow, I’m staring at his heated face.
“First, the reason we took a cab was because walking here would’ve taken us more than forty-five minutes and by then no matter how much you love winter, you would’ve frozen to death, putting a tragic end to your midnight adventure. Second, I am colder than winter. The coat’s for your benefit because again no matter how much you love winter, it’ll still give you frostbite. And third, there’s nothing weird about you being energetic. It’s called endorphins. Aka happy hormones. Aka that happens after sex. Biology 101.”
I open my mouth to say something, but like I did before, he stops me. Not with his finger, though, but with his mouth, pressing a kiss before he says, “Oh, and I can leave whenever I want to.”
No, he can’t.
Because I know about the coat.
I was just messing with him. I knew he wore it for me—it’s a long overcoat—and I know that’s the reason I’m wrapped up in it.
So he’s not going anywhere.
Besides, let’s not forget that we’re cuddling.
Yup.
And it was his idea too.
I mean, I did want to use him as a pillow and cuddle with him, ever since I saw his chest revealed in its full glory anyway. I mean, his chest is made to rest my head on.
But he got there first.
As soon as we lay on the ground, he was the one who reached for me and hauled me up against his side and put his large palm on the back of my head and made me do what I already wanted to: rest my head on his chest, tuck it under his jaw, and lie here for an eternity. And then he wrapped me in his coat, keeping me plastered to his side.
Twenty minutes later, he’s still doing that.
I cup his cold, harsh cheek. “No, you can’t.”
“No?”
“Because if you leave, who’s going to keep an eye on me?”
He clenches his jaw in response.
“Or cuddle me to keep me warm.”
“This is not cuddling.”
“This is absolutely cuddling.”
“I don’t cuddle.”
“You cuddle me, though.”
“You—”
“Oh, and if we’re talking about hormones and chemicals and stuff, shouldn’t it be Chemistry 101?”
“I—”
“And doesn’t that mean we have insane chemistry?” I repeat my words from long ago.
His lips twitch, his eyes roving over my features. “I thought the words were In. Sane, not insane. And it also means that I want to sit you down at a desk and make you write over and over, ‘Isadora Agni Holmes should not annoy Stellan Thorne.’”
I smirk and rub my thumb over his jaw that’s stubbled after a long day. “How about you bend me over a desk instead and I write, Stellan Thorne only pretends to hate when Isadora Holmes annoys him. Secretly, he wants to be annoyed all the time.”
And then to annoy him further, I reach up, wanting to place a sweet kiss on his lips. But he stops me a hair’s breadth away from his mouth and growls, “If I bend you over a desk, Dora, you won’t be able to spell your name, let alone write those two sentences over and over.” Then, “Actually, you won’t be able to sit at a desk for at least a week, let alone put pen to paper.”
After delivering that threat that sounded more like a promise, he finally bridges the gap himself and gives me a hot, wet kiss, tasting me and letting me savor his smoky, marshmallow-y taste.
When he lets me come up for air, I whisper, “You taste like marshmallows.”
He glances down at my lips. “You taste like cherries.”
“Did you really want to do that,” I ask shyly, referring to what he told me about wanting to eat me out on the bus, “to me? On the bus?”
Amusement flickers through his features. “I made a pros and cons list.”
“You did not.”
“Uh-huh. I got to ten pros. Pro number one: I get to eat your pussy. Pro number two: I get to make you my whiny little whore. Pro number three: I get to eat your pussy. Pro number four: Everyone on the bus, on the fucking highway, would know that you belong to me and that I’m giving it to you good. Because you’re so loud, aren’t you? Pro number five: I get to eat your pussy. Pro number six and seven and eight and nine and fucking ten: I get to eat your goddamn pussy.”
“W-what stopped you?”
“The fact that there’s a chance they could get a peek at your sloppy snatch and that’s not something I can allow, can I?”
“No.”
And I wouldn’t want to show them either. Only he gets to see it.
He comes down for another kiss.
When he breaks it, I look at his face, his mouth as I murmur, “I thought you’d taste like a rose, though.”
“A rose.”
“Uh-huh.” I trace the curve of his mouth with my fingers. “Because the first time I saw you, I thought your mouth looks like a rose, all plush and soft.”
“Hmm. If that’s your way of complimenting me, I suggest you try again.”
I look into his eyes. “Roses are my favorite flowers.”
“Yeah, no.”
“And you were smoking, so I thought a rose set on fire,” I share. “So up until my mom sent me away to Bardstown, I’d stand under that pink magnolia tree and smoke a cigarette thinking about you.”
He goes rigid. “You smoke a cigarette.”
Oops. Should not have told him that.
“I—”
“No,” he declares.
I wrinkle my nose. “How did I know you’d say that?”
“Because as reckless as you are, courting death like this, you still have some sense left in your head to tell you that I’m not going to be happy about it.”
“You know, you smoke and?—”
“Yeah? Well, I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
“That’s double standards.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you going to stop doing it?”
I glare up at him. “You know, you’re taking this daddy thing a little too far.”
He narrows his eyes. “You wanted a daddy, remember?”
“I changed my mind.”
“You can’t. Not with me.”
Stubbornly, I make him wait.
“Dora,” he warns.
I sigh. “Fine, I will.”
He sighs too. “Good.”
I huff. “I’m not happy about this.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
Mad, I go to look away from him, but he doesn’t let me. He goes for another kiss and I refrain for about five seconds before I give in and kiss him back. Maybe I should hold onto my anger at how bossy he was but when he’s sucking on my mouth like he’s sucking in air, I can’t be.
Breaking the kiss, he rasps against my wet mouth, “I won’t let you ruin yourself for me. You’ve done that enough.”
I fist his hair. “But I?—”
“How do you feel?” he asks then.
I blush because I know what he’s asking. “Was that the second reason you didn’t let us walk here?”
His pretty features ripple with something akin to remorse. “It was bad.”
I put both of my hands on his cheek then. “It wasn’t.”
“I could’ve been more careful.”
“You were careful,” I insist. “It was exactly what I wanted.”
“You—”
“No, it was,” I cut him off. “I told you. I wanted to bleed for you, and I did. And I liked it.”
“That’s—”
“And”—I squeeze his cheeks—“you insisted on cleaning me up down there with a hot towel on top of drawing me a bath for my sore muscles. Even though I didn’t say a single word to you. But”—I place a soft kiss on his lips—“I’m thankful nonetheless. And I’m fine, I promise. So end of discussion.”
Even though I’m lying a little bit.
There is some soreness between my legs and my inner thighs throb when I move too quickly. But other than that, I’m truly fine and itching for a round two. Which I forgot to add up there, he denied on account of ‘my pussy being too trashed for another fucking.’
His words, not mine.
Pressing a hard kiss on my mouth as if every time I kiss him now, he has to kiss me back, he growls, “You didn’t have to. Your pussy looked plenty beaten up on her own.” Then, muttering to himself as if, “That was the least I could do after how I hurt her.”
At this point, I have to do it.
I have to pull him even closer.
I have to pull him over my body and have him settle into the cradle of my thighs, right where my sore pussy is that he so tenderly massaged with that hot towel and wrap my thighs around his strong hips.
So I do that.
I pull on the collar of his shirt and make him come over me. When he’s exactly where I want, I arch my back under him and line my core up with where I know his dick is. “Are we done discussing how your dick’s a beast and my pussy is a beauty that he kidnapped and then violated in his library that contains like thousands of books?” Then it occurs to me. “Which your room has, by the way. Oh my God, we’re like the beauty and the beast!”
His lips twitch. “First, not God, me. And second, I don’t think that’s what Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve had in mind when he came up with Beauty and the Beast.”
I frown. “Who is that?”
“A French novelist,” he tells me, framing my face with one hand and taking a drag of his cigarette with the other. Letting the smoke out away from me, he finishes, “Who wrote Beauty and the Beast, the original version, back in 1740.”
I blink up at him for a few seconds. “It’s not Disney that came up with Beauty and the Beast?”
He stares at me unblinking for a second. “No, Dora. It’s not Disney.”
I narrow my eyes at his condescension.
And he emits a very low chuckle.
God, I hate him.
I hate how much I love him. I hate how happy his chuckle makes me.
No, actually, I’m lying. I just love it.
“Anyway.” I wave all of this away. “That’s not the point.”
“I can’t wait to hear the point,” he quips as he takes another drag.
I roll my eyes. “The point is that I read the books you told me about.”
That gets his attention, and he stubs the cigarette in the snow and looks down at me. “You read the books.”
“Uh-huh. The Adventures of Rune.”
He keeps staring at me for a moment or two before asking, “How many pages?”
Damn it.
I squirm under him. “Like twenty…”
His lips twitch again. “So basically one chapter.”
I push at his shoulder. “Hey, it’s a really long book and there are like, eight in the series. I bought them all but stacked together they looked even taller than me. So I kinda watched the movies.”
I did.
I bought the books after my play.
The very next day.
Because I was under the impression that I’d never get to be with him again. That that night was goodbye and we’d go back to being strangers like we essentially had been this past year. And God, I was so heartbroken about it. So sad and miserable and so fucking devastated. So I went out and bought those books that he was talking about, that he could not stop talking about, all determined to get to know the world he loves so much.
Thank God there were movies, though.
Which were really, really good, actually. I can see why he loves these books.
Which is why we’re having this conversation in the first place.
He pulls a face. “Movies are shit.”
I roll my eyes again. Of course he’d think that. Books are always better than movies, but since I hate reading, movies are my only choice.
In any case, I stick with the point. “So anyway, I got to talking to one of the girls in my drama class. And she really loves those books too and she said they inspired her to pursue her career path today. You know, acting. But get this”—I play with the collar of his shirt under his coat, looking at his throat—“her family wasn’t all that into it. They’re all lawyers and doctors and stuff, you know? And she’s the first, uh, actor. Or any arts person for that matter. And she told me it was scary, telling them about her interests and that this is what she wants to pursue. Which, as I said, is completely different from everything she’s ever known. So”—I clear my throat again—“yeah, she did it and she’s really happy today. Isn’t that amazing?”
I kinda think I didn’t really think it through.
In my head, this story sounded very convincing and believable. Pair that with my acting skills—because there isn’t a friend, and therefore, I had no conversation with anyone—and this would’ve been a home run.
I don’t think it was.
I think it sounded very long-winded and phony, and I don’t think my point was all that obvious. Which could be my only saving grace here.
“You think I’m not pursuing a different career path,” he begins, dashing my hopes immediately. “Something to do with books because my whole family is in soccer and so I’m pressured into it.”
I whip my eyes up and, fisting his shirt at his chest, I ask, “How did you figure that out?”
His features are at war with each other. Half of them amused and the other half annoyed. His jaw, on the annoyed team, clenches. “Because it isn’t that hard to figure out. Because I’ve already dropped the ball with you once when you fooled me into thinking that you were dating my twin. And because I know how your twisted little mind works.”
I fist his shirt harder. “You really need to let that dating thing go, okay?” His jaw clenches again, but I keep going, “I fooled you. Deal with it. You fooled me too. We’re even. And second, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t I what?”
“Into soccer because your brothers are?”
“I’m into soccer because it comes easy to me.”
“But you don’t even like soccer,” I say urgently.
“So?”
“So you could be doing something else. You could be doing something with the books and?—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“But, Stellan?—”
“Fuck no.”
I glare up at him, breathing harshly. “I don’t get it.”
He’s breathing harshly too. “You don’t need to get it.”
“I do,” I tell him.
“Yeah, why?”
“Because…” I try to shake him, but he’s so strong and solid that all I manage to do is pull him even closer until we’re breathing against each other, our breaths fighting. “Because I love you, you idiot. I care about you. I want you to be happy and soccer doesn’t make you happy.”
A particularly hard gust of air escapes him at my words.
Like I gave him wings with my words and then brought him back down to the ground.
By saying those three words.
Which is so ironic because they make me want to fly.
He grabs my face then, tightly, tilting my head back. “You want me to be happy, yeah?”
I nod.
“So then I want you to stop with the love bullshit and get a clue,” he growls, his body pressing down on me. “This isn’t a good thing, Dora. Loving me is not a good thing. I have said this to you a million times. You need to smarten up and move on from a man like me. That’s what we are trying to do here before you go marry my fucking brother, all right? We’re not trying to fall in love, we’re trying to make you fall out of it. So if you want me to be happy, you will stop messing with things you don’t understand and let it the fuck happen.”
Let it happen, is it?
He wants me to fall out of love with him. When every time I say it or allude to it, it looks like I’ve given him the world. It looks like I’ve made him the most relieved and satisfied and the happiest man alive.
“By you fucking me?”
“Love is a drug,” he tells me. “It’s an addiction. The best way to break an addiction is to indulge in it so much that you get sick of it. Or you overdose and they take you to the hospital and pump it out of you, whichever comes first. So yeah, by fucking you. And fucking you so much you either get sick of me or stroke out and realize I’m fucking toxic.”
But you know what, fuck him.
I’m so mad I could bite him.
“Give me my ring back,” I order.
A thundering expression crosses his face. “No.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
I smack his chest. “If you want me to marry your twin brother, then give me my ring back.”
Coming closer, he pushes his nose against mine. “You will get a ring when you marry him. You don’t need this one.”
I smack his chest again. “I need it to keep men like you away.”
His fingers flex around my face. “You have a man like me to keep men like me away.”
I scratch his jaw then. “What’s so bad about you, huh? Other than the fact that you are an asshole and a liar.”
“Everything,” he growls, tugging on my hair. “Everything is bad about me.”
I can see he believes that.
He absolutely believes it.
And you know what, I believe him too.
I believe there’s something bad in him. Something that makes him think he’s a bad brother, a bad man. But more than that I believe that whatever it is, it’s more harmful to him than it can ever be to me.
So when I see the self-loathing so thick on his features, my heart squeezes and I fuse our mouths together. When I should be leaving, I hold on to him so tightly with my entire body that our edges blur and mesh together.
And even though he wants me to leave him, he holds on to me just as tightly. Tighter, in fact. So much so that he’s crushing me into the snowy ground while at the same time, keeping me plastered to his chest. And our kiss feels so desperate.
As desperate as the kiss of two people in love who are afraid to lose each other.
The next morning, I’m walking down the hotel parking lot to get to the bus so we can head out while thinking about when to tell Shepard.
It has to be today, though. I just need to figure out when exactly.
I’m aware that it will stress him out and maybe I should wait until the season is over so he can focus on the game. But I’ve already hid the truth from him before and it didn’t turn out that well. Plus, the championship game—which I’m sure they’ll get to play—is still a few weeks away and I’m not waiting that long to tell my fiancé that this isn’t working out. As in he can’t fix things. He can’t help me move on.
I’m very firmly—even more firmly—stuck on his twin brother.
And that I slept with the said twin brother last night.
Twice.
Well, he fucked me just once but then in the park, he ate me out while I lay there on the cold grass, all heated by his body and his mouth on my sore pussy, and tasted snow on my tongue every time I gasped.
For the record, I told Stellan that it was really unfair that he keeps getting to eat my pussy while I still haven’t gotten to taste his cock. And his words were: “Yeah, but see, I’m an asshole with double standards. I don’t really give a fuck about what you want right now. As long as I get to bury my face in your cherry-flavored cunt and make it dance on my tongue like you danced for me. And keep doing that until sometime next week. So instead of arguing with me, why don’t you relax like Daddy’s good whore and let him spread your legs and get some pussy, yeah?”
Actually, if we’re counting the number of times he ate me out yesterday as sleeping with him, then I think the count is up to three times or four…
I’m almost at the bus now while pondering such dilemmas, which is when it happens. I slip on the patch of ice and bump my forehead on the side of the open door.
“Ow,” I whine.
“Shit. You okay?”
Did I mention that I’ve been thinking about telling my fiancé that I had sex with his twin brother while walking with said fiancé?
Yes, that’s exactly the scenario I’ve found myself in.
And I think it’s karma. I betrayed Shepard last night—although if we’re being honest, I’ve been betraying him ever since I’ve known him—and now the universe is biting me in the ass. In any case, he looks concerned as he climbs down the steps of the bus to come check on me, which makes me feel even guiltier.
I rub my forehead that’s slightly throbbing. “Yeah, I guess I just wasn’t looking.”
He removes my hand gently from the spot to replace it with his. “Hmm. Doesn’t look too bad.” He presses the spot and I hiss. “Ah, it got you, huh. But?—”
“What happened?”
A loud and very familiar voice cuts Shep off and his jaw clenches. He glances over my shoulders, and I know he’s watching his twin brother arrive. I also know that his brother is getting closer fast because with every second, Shepard’s jaw gets harder and his eyes harsher.
Shit.
This isn’t going to be good, is it?
He gets really upset when something hurts me—as evidenced by his ministrations last night and countless other things that he’s done over the past year—and after what happened at the bar when he had to come to my rescue, this is going to be really, really bad.
I spin around just as he reaches us, and I realize I was right.
It is going to be bad.
He’s dressed as he usually does, in a workout T-shirt that emphasizes his dense muscles and low-slung sweatpants with his hair pushed back and polished as always. But the rest of him has agitation written all over it. His tight face, his heavy breaths and his dark, frantic eyes that land on me.
I open my mouth to tell him that it’s okay, but he gets to speak first. “What the fuck happened?”
I wince at his lashing voice. Not because I’m scared of it or him, but because he’s worrying over nothing. Taking a step toward him, I soothe, “Nothing. It’s just… I wasn’t watching where I was going and I literally walked into a door. It was so stupid. And so embarrassing but…”
I trail off.
Because for some reason, my explanation—that I thought would put him at ease—is kinda making things worse. His eyes are darkening, which I didn’t think was possible, and his face, which was already very angled, looks even more angular now.
And then there’s his voice.
It isn’t lashing anymore, but I don’t think it’s a good thing. Because it’s low and rough and it shivers down my spine as he says, “You walked into a door.”
I want to say yes. I want to once again put his mind at ease.
But for some reason, I can’t speak. My heart’s pounding something fierce now and I can’t think over how loud it’s being.
Or at least I can’t think of anything other than this one thing: I’ve seen him do this or be like this before. Very recently, in fact. On the night of my engagement when I told him about my mom.
When I was being all casual about it—while not feeling casual on the inside, though; on the inside, I was downright miserable and hurt—and he stood there both still and vibrating. He stood there both hot skin and cold eyes.
He looks exactly like that right now.
His posture may be rigid and carved out of stone. But the vein on the side of his neck is pulsating intensely, making me think of his heart beneath layers and layers of ice, beating and pulsing like it’s going to beat out of his chest.
“Stellan? I…” I take another step. “It’s fine. I’m?—”
His eyes move over my shoulders and his jaw hardens further. Much like Shepard’s had but on him, it looks severe, much more dangerous. “Where were you?”
“What?” Shepard says.
“What the fuck were you doing?” he asks, again in that low, vibrating, shaking voice.
“What?” Shepard goes in disbelief. “What is your problem? I?—”
Finally, something breaks in Stellan, I think.
Because he moves toward Shepard, advances on him really and his voice booms, “What the fuck is my problem? What the fuck is your problem? Where were you, huh? Where the fuck were you when she was getting her head bumped? Why weren’t you looking after her? Why weren’t you?—”
Even though my eyes are pinned on Stellan, I know Shepard has come closer as well. I can hear his feet shuffling behind me, his voice getting angrier, “Hey, listen, you asshole, I’m not her babysitter. I’m not?—”
“No, you’re not,” Stellan bites out, his teeth clenched. “You’re her fucking fiancé. You’re supposed to look out for her. You’re supposed to?—”
“If you’ve got a problem with how I treat my fiancée, I don’t give a fuck, all right. I?—”
Stellan goes to advance on Shepard, and I decide to stop being frozen and absolutely horrified at what’s happening and how it even came about and stop him. I thrust my body between him and Shepard, and say, “Stellan, stop. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
He’s still staring at Shepard, his eyes promising murder, his chest displaying all the mayhem inside of him. “You can’t drop the ball here, do you understand? You cannot drop the fucking ball with her. It’s her. It’s?—”
“Stellan, stop,” I plead, my voice thick with tears. “Please, stop. It’s fine.”
But I don’t think he’s listening to me.
I don’t think he can listen.
Not over the chaos in his own body, over his own loud breaths and his heartbeat. And I probably shouldn’t do it. I probably should not get even closer to him because for some reason, I’m very aware of the fact that I slept with him last night.
I’m very aware of the fact that only a few hours ago, we were tangled up with each other and watching the snow. Before he dropped me off at my room and told me to lock the door like he always does.
And when I did but promptly unlocked it to throw it open, I found him standing in the exact same spot. Looking exactly like he had the first time I’d found him standing there.
So I jumped into his arms once again and we made out like two people with In. Sane chemistry just inside my door. After which, he finally left, and I fell on my bed and spent the next hours dreaming about him.
So again, now that I’ve grown closer to him, I shouldn’t do this either. I shouldn’t put my hand on his chest, which feels feverish to the touch.
But I do it.
Because I don’t think I have any other choice. I don’t think he’ll hear me otherwise.
“Stellan,” I say, pressing my hand right where his heart is. And God, it’s going. It’s really, really going and that’s what keeps me firmly in my place. “Stellan, please. Look at me.”
When he still doesn’t, I increase the pressure and get so close that we’re touching in a way that I don’t think I should be touching my fiancé’s twin brother, not out in public at least where my fiancé can see it.
But I decide to put that out of my head and focus my energy on saving Shepard because from the looks of it, Stellan may murder him.
“Stellan,” I try again, fisting his T-shirt. “Look at me, please. Just look at me.”
Finally, my urgency gets through to him and he jerks his eyes away from Shepard. They come to settle or more like crash against me and God, they’re so intense, so penetrating, so full of things that look like urgency and anger and restlessness and… is that fear? I don’t even know anymore, what his gaze is made up of.
There are a thousand different emotions in them and fuck everything else.
Fuck the world.
I have to put my other hand on his chest. I have to get even closer to him.
I have to soothe him, put him at ease about something that I don’t even understand. All I know is that he’s burning, and I have to save him.
“I’m fine,” I whisper loud enough so that only he can hear me, so that he thinks we’re in a safe bubble and not part of this world or whatever it is that’s happening to him. “Nothing happened, I promise. You can see for yourself. I’m really fine. It’s okay, Stellan. You can?—”
“What the fuck’s happening?”
I snatch my hands back and move away as the third lashing voice enters the scene. I don’t have to look to know who it is. It’s Coach Thorne and he looks angry. At which point I also realize that there’s a crowd gathered around us. Mostly they’re all on the bus, crowded around the windows as they witness what’s happening.
And I take a few more steps back.
And two things happen at once: My back collides with Shepard’s chest and he takes the opportunity to wrap his arm around me and Jesus, pin my spine to his chest. As if staking his claim.
In front of his twin brother.
And second, his brother absolutely notices it, his eyes glancing down to Shepard’s arm around my chest, his fingers curled over my shoulder. And his stance gets wider, that chaos in his eyes getting crazier. Although right now the dominating emotion happens to be anger.
It happens to be retribution and mayhem.
Then Shepard speaks and I think all hell is going to break loose. “Stellan here thinks that I’m not doing my job well.”
This is addressed to Conrad, but I’m watching Stellan getting this close to losing it. I wish he’d look at me instead of Shepard’s arm on me.
Conrad speaks. “Shepard, on the bus. Right now.” Then, to Stellan, “You and me, we need to talk.”
No one moves for the next few seconds.
Which prompts Conrad to repeat his command to Shepard and thankfully move his arm from around me. I breathe out a sigh of relief as Stellan looks into my eyes. I give him a shaky smile, just to reassure him that I’m fine. That there’s no need for this, but he grits his jaw before commanding, “Go.”
Swallowing, I nod and follow Shepard into the bus.
I want to look out so badly. So fucking badly and see what Conrad and Stellan are talking about, but I don’t dare move my eyes away from my feet. I hold myself tightly too, lest I break down and run back to him to give him the biggest and tightest hug he’s ever gotten in his life.
And then climb his body and kiss him and kiss him until the end of time.
I think by the time I reach my seat—Shepard has gotten waylaid somewhere to chat with a couple of his teammates—I have gotten my urges under control. But then I see a simple, unassuming white gift bag on my seat with a rose peeking out of it and I lose it.
A tear falls down my cheek as I pick it up with trembling hands. My knees give out and I plop down on my seat when I stick my hand inside and feel what it is.
My white dress.
The one he tore.
I pull it out and notice that the bodice is mended. It’s as good as new. Did he… Did he sew the dress for me? I clutch the rose to my chest as I also discover a note inside it.
And it says,
Sorry. For the dress and for setting your favorite flower on fire.