Chapter 19 #2
Rowan took another swig and swallowed as he tried to figure out how to make his jumbled thoughts in response to that coherent enough to make sense when they came out of his mouth. But eventually he settled for a simple, “Every damn day.”
Enya let out a laugh, but it wasn’t funny.
It was sharp, bitter, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the next crack of thunder, the vibration rattling the windowpanes in their frames.
The bottle passed between them again. They no longer kept track of time as the whiskey did its work, loosening their tongues, their limbs, and the careful, deliberate distance they’d kept between them so far.
She shifted slightly, her knee brushing his, the contact accidental but not unwelcome, and he loved that she didn’t pull away.
The heat of her skin seeped through the fabric of his jeans, a small, insistent point of contact in the storm’s chaos.
The bottle was nearly half-empty when her fingers found his wrist, her touch light but deliberate, her thumb pressing against the pulse point beneath his skin.
The contact sent a jolt through him, sharp and unexpected.
“You’re a terrible liar, Salieri,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rain.
He swallowed hard as her fingers traced slow, deliberate circles against his skin.
His grip on the bottle tightened as he fought to win the battle of keeping his hands to himself.
“Never said I wasn’t,” he replied, his voice rough because his words were caught somewhere between a confession and a challenge.
Her lips parted, just enough that he could catch the scent of whiskey on her breath and the faintest hint of something sweeter beneath it—vanilla, maybe, or a mint she’d chewed earlier.
The air between them had been thick with something unspoken, a tension that hummed like a live wire, crackling with the same restless energy as the storm outside.
Rowan could feel it in the way his pulse thrummed beneath her fingers, in the way her breath came just a little faster, shallow and uneven.
Then something changed, catching him off guard.
Her hand shot up, and her fingers twisted into the damp strands of his hair, gripping hard enough to pull, and then her mouth was on his.
There was no hesitation or softness. Heat and hunger ruled over the taste of bourbon sharp on her tongue, mingling with something else, something sweeter and darker, that coiled tight in his chest like a drawn bowstring.
The bottle slipped from his fingers, forgotten, crashing to the floor with a heavy thud, the last of the amber liquid bleeding across the warped wood planks, but neither of them spared it a glance.
Rowan’s hands moved on instinct, finding the dip of her waist, his fingers curling into the worn fabric of the hoodie she wore.
He bunched it between his knuckles as he yanked her against him.
The impact stole her breath in a sharp, startled gasp that turned into something rougher, needier, when his teeth caught her lower lip, tugging just enough to sting.
The couch groaned beneath them. The springs whined in protest, the leather cracked as their weight shifted when she pressed closer, as if she meant to climb into his skin.
The frame shuddered, but neither of them cared.
The whole damn barn could’ve collapsed around them, the roof could have peeled back like a tin can with the wind screaming through the rafters, and neither of them would have noticed.
Her nails raked against his scalp, sharp and insistent, sending a jolt down his spine that settled low in his gut.
His name tore from her lips, “Rowan—” It was a plea, a curse, a prayer all at once.
Her voice was rough with whiskey and something far more dangerous.
The storm still raged outside. The rain lashed the windows like a thousand daggers, and the thunder shook the glass in its panes.
But here, in this sliver of stolen time, it was all white noise, a distant rumble drowned out by the roar of his own blood, the scorching press of her body, the way she arched into him as if she wanted to fuse them together.
Damn, I could so easily get lost in this… in her.
The storm broke as suddenly as it had begun. One moment, the wind howled, rattling the barn’s old bones, and the next there was quietness as the rain slowed to a dull, uneven patter on the roof. Rowan groaned as Enya pulled back.
Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, but her grip had loosened. She didn’t meet his eyes.
His hands still spanned her waist, his thumbs pressing into the softness of her hoodie.
He could feel the rapid, erratic thump of her pulse beneath his fingers and see the way her chest rose and fell, as she caught her breath.
The whiskey may have burned away the edges of his restraint, but the storm’s end hit him upside the head with sobering clarity.
Fuck, what the hell have we done?
The silence after the storm was a thick, suffocating stillness that pressed in on Rowan from all sides. The only sounds were the irregular drip-drip of rainwater leaking through the barn roof somewhere nearby and the frantic drumming of his own heartbeat against his ribs.
He could still taste her—whiskey and desperation and something that was uniquely Enya—on his lips.
Her fingers were still loosely tangled in his hair, her body pressed against his from shoulder to hip, warm and shockingly real.
The spilled whiskey pooled on the warped wood floorboards near his boot, its sharp, sweet scent mingling with the damp leather and dust smell of the office.
The bottle lay on its side, miraculously unbroken but empty, a stark symbol of the control he’d lost.
What the hell have we done? The thought slammed into him again, cutting through the lingering haze of bourbon and adrenaline.
He’d crossed a line he knew he shouldn’t have even looked, never mind come close to.
He was her anchor, her protector, the man who’d pulled her out of hell.
But instead of protecting her, he’d kissed her like he was drowning, and she offered the last gasp of air he’d ever have.
Worse, he’d kissed her with everything he had, letting the storm and the whiskey and the raw, aching need between them sweep away every shred of his carefully maintained distance.
Enya shifted slightly against him, her breath catching on a tiny, ragged inhale. Rowan felt the tremor run through her, a fine vibration beneath his hands still resting on her waist. Slowly and deliberately, he loosened his grip, giving her space she hadn’t asked for but seemed to desperately need.
Back off.
Give her room.
She decides what happens.
You deal with it.
Period.
Her fingers slowly uncurled from his hair. The loss of contact was like a physical chill, and Rowan shuddered against her. She drew back just enough to look up at him, her eyes wide, pupils still dilated in the dim lamplight, reflecting the chaotic mess inside him.
Her lips were swollen, faintly reddened from the scrape of his stubble and the force of his kiss. A flush stained her cheeks, clashing with the lingering pallor of exhaustion beneath her eyes. She looked utterly wrecked, beautiful, and terrifyingly vulnerable.
He saw the flicker of confusion, then dawning horror, then sheer panic chase across her face.
“Enya…” Her name sounded raw coming from his lips.
She flinched and scrambled backward off him so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.
Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips as if she could erase what had happened.
Her gaze darted from his face to the spilled whiskey, to the worn leather couch, then back to him, “I… I need air,” she choked out, the words barely audible, and turning on her heel, she fled the office.
The barn door groaned open and then slammed shut behind her as Rowan slumped back against the cracked leather of the couch. He dragged a hand down his face.
That was a stupid-ass move.
It was also reckless, not to mention unprofessional.
The self-recriminations landed like hammer blows.
He’d taken advantage of her. She was shattered, adrift, seeking any port in the storm, and he’d…
what? Offered comfort? Or taken what he’d wanted because the darkness in him recognized the darkness in her?
You’re supposed to be her safe harbor, asshole. Not the fucking storm that puts her on the rocks.
He stared at the empty doorway, trying to ignore the image of her fleeing figure that was burned onto his retinas.
He pushed himself off the couch, his movements stiff and automatic.
He righted the bottle and wiped the worst of the spill with a rag snatched from his desk. The motions were grounding and mundane.
Control what you can control.
He needed coffee—strong, black, scalding coffee. He probably should have had it before he freaking came out here. But then nobody had ever accused him of being the smart twin.
The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten with streaks of pale grey and bruised purple as he began the walk back to the house. He braced himself as he pushed open the kitchen door and winced because the overhead light was already on in the kitchen.
Gael stood at the counter, his back to the door, pouring water into the coffee maker. His posture relaxed, but Rowan knew his twin too well. The slight tension in Gael’s shoulders, the deliberate slowness of his movements, all screamed that he was waiting for something or, rather someone… him.
“Morning,” Rowan grunted, heading straight for the sink.
“Mornin’.” Gael didn’t turn around. The gurgle of the coffee maker starting filled the silence for a moment. “Storm finally quit. Sounded like a real bastard.” He casually leaned a hip against the counter, finally glancing over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp and assessing as it swept over him.
Fuck.
Rowan silently cursed and managed to suppress a wince when his brother’s gaze lingered for a fraction of a second too long on his rumpled shirt.
Act normal.
Normal?
He wasn’t entirely sure that normal was in his wheelhouse anymore.
“You look like hell warmed over. Rough night?”
Understatement of the fucking century.
Rowan ignored the bitingly cold water and scrubbed his hands vigorously under the faucet.
“The usual,” he said. “Memories and shit. You know how it is. The storm didn’t fucking help.
” He grabbed a towel for his hands. “Enya okay? I saw her coming in ahead of me.” He kept his tone carefully neutral and focused on the mundane task of pulling mugs from the cupboard.
Don’t look at him.
Don’t give him an opening.
Gael’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “She looked…rattled, and bolted straight upstairs when she came in. Barely said two words.” He paused, letting the unspoken question hang between them. “Said she was with you in the barn office.”
Fuckballs.
Even though his back was to him as he busied himself with the mugs, Rowan felt the weight of Gael’s scrutiny like a physical pressure.
“Yeah, the storm spooked her, bad. Worse than me, I think.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.
It just wasn’t the entire truth either. “She, um, needed something stronger than hot chocolate when I came down earlier.” He gestured vaguely towards the barn with his chin.
“We um, finished the bottle of Knob Creek, so put it on the list, will ya?”
And then some.
“Hmm.” Gael’s non-committal hum was loaded, but he went to do as he asked and added it to the running grocery list on the fridge.
He poured two mugs and slid one across the counter towards Gael without looking at him.
If he gave his twin an inch, all the teasing and bullshit he’d given him and Joel would be coming back toward him, stat.
He knew better than most that Karma was a bitch, especially when it’s your brother who’s dishing it out.
“Heard the barn door slam like the hounds of hell were after her.” Gael returned to his spot against the counter and cradled his mug in his hands. His gaze was steady and probing. “Was everything alright out there, Rowe?”
The question was casual, but the emphasis on ‘Rowe’ wasn’t.
It was a reminder of the bond, the shared history, the unspoken rule: No bullshit between us.
Rowan met Gael’s eyes, forcing his own expression into one of weary annoyance.
“Just a scared girl and a bad storm. Nothing the bourbon couldn’t handle.
” He scalded the inside of his mouth, taking a gulp of coffee, but welcomed the burn.
“She’s fine, that’s what matters.” At least he hoped she was.
But he’d settle for safe, if fine wasn’t on the table.
Safe from the storm.
Safe from the cartel.
Not necessarily safe from me.
Gael held his gaze for a long, silent beat, and Rowan could see the questions swirling, along with the protective instinct warring with his brother’s understanding of boundaries.
Gael knew trauma. He knew the jagged edges it left on a person’s soul.
He also knew him, probably better than anyone on the planet.
Finally, Gael gave a slow nod, though the skepticism didn’t entirely leave his eyes. “Alright.” He took a sip of his own coffee. “Just… tread careful, Rowe. She’s—um—fragile.”
She’s stronger than she believes.
“That’s the plan,” Rowan lied. He pushed away from the counter. “I’ve got the morning feed, and I need to check on that filly’s hoof.”
Escape… he needed to be moving, to be doing something, anything except standing here under Gael’s all too-perceptive gaze. He grabbed his battered ball cap from the hook by the door and shoved it on his head.
Work.
Focus on the work.
It was just a kiss, damn it.
One hell of a hot kiss, but still a kiss.