Chapter 30 #2
A pang of disappointment twists in my chest, sharp and unexpected.
I wanted the marks. I wanted the proof that he was there, that he claimed me.
What the hell is wrong with me, wanting something like that?
Still, the absence of them feels like a loss, a reminder that this is temporary, that I’m already fading from his skin as much as he is from mine.
His hand slides lower, between my legs, and I jerk at the unexpected contact. “Stryker.”
He doesn’t stop.
Instead, he glides his fingers through the slick heat already gathering there. His motions are slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing me. “Still wet for me.”
His words send a fresh wave of arousal crashing through me. My knees buckle slightly, and I tighten my grip on my ankles.
He continues, stroking me with purpose now, circling my clit, dipping inside me, curling just right.
My breath comes in shallow pants, my body trembling under his touch. He knows exactly what I need, exactly how to unravel me, and he does it with a patience that feels like worship.
Deep inside, my pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in my belly, spreading outward in hot, pulsing waves. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, but the sound escapes anyway, raw and desperate.
But Stryker doesn’t let up. His fingers are relentless, and he uses his free hand to hold my hip steady, grounding me as my climax begins to build. “Oh, Stryker.” Once more, I’m lost in him.
“Come for me.”
The orgasm hits me hard, a white-hot surge that leaves me shaking, my legs barely able to hold me up.
I sag forward, tears pricking at my eyes, both hot and unwelcome.
I want to stay here. I want to stay bent over for him in this cabin, with him, forever.
I remind myself that, even if Remy weren’t coming, even if the world weren’t closing in, we’d end up apart anyway.
He’s law and order. I’m chaos and secrets.
This was always going to end. Better now, before the hurt gets worse. But God, why does it hurt so damn bad?
Gently he straightens me, his hands warm on my waist as he pulls my underwear and sweatpants back up, smoothing them into place.
He turns me to face him, his eyes searching mine, dark and unreadable. “Anything wrong?”
I blink hard, forcing the tears back. “I’m fine. It’s just…” I tuck back my hair in show. “It was in my eyes. Stinging me.”
For a long moment, he studies me. Then he wipes his thumb across my cheek, catching a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the flicker of doubt in his gaze. But he nods once, accepting it because he has to, because I’ve given him no choice.
After touching my lying mouth, he asks if I’m hungry.
Even though I’m not, life on the run has taught me a lot. Eat when I can. Catch some shut eye whenever possible. “Yeah.”
He moves to the stove, pulls bacon from the fridge, starts the pan sizzling.
Comfortable with him in a way I have never been with anyone else, I make a chai while he cooks.
And then, voyeur that I am, I lean against the counter and watch the way his shoulders move under the flannel, the way he cooks scrambled eggs and still manages to flip each strip of bacon with precision.
“Mind making some toast?”
“Happy to.” Probably better than continuing to stare at him morosely.
Within five minutes, the food is plated.
And this morning, the bacon isn’t burned.
Unaware of my inner turmoil, he tears a piece of bacon in half and holds it to my lips.
Obediently I open my mouth, and he slides the bacon in. The salt and smoke explode across my tongue, and I chew slowly, swallowing the taste of him along with it. This is the last meal I will ever share with him, and the knowledge sits heavy in my stomach.
He feeds me another piece, then a bite of egg, his gaze steady on my face.
I’m desperate to memorize the way the light catches in his eyes, the small scar at the corner of his mouth, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. I want to bottle this moment and keep it forever, but the clock is ticking and Remy is coming.
Stryker sets the plate aside and studies me hard. “I need to take a shower, then check in with headquarters.”
“Take your time.”
Instead, he cups my shoulders. “I have plans for you this morning.”
My pulse stutters.
If only…
I force a smile. “Oh?”
“Get yourself ready for me, sweetheart.”
He disappears down the hall, and the water starts, a steady rush behind the closed door. I count heartbeats—one, two, three—then move.
The distant rumble of an engine cuts through the quiet, growing louder, closer. Remy. I slip on my shoes, grab my coat from the hook, shove my arms into the sleeves, pick up my go bag, and slip out the door.
The freezing temperature slaps my face and steals my breath. Snow crunches under my feet as I push through the drifts toward the tree line, the go bag thumping against my hip.
I move as fast as I can, knowing I don’t have much time.
Behind me, I hear the cabin door bang open. “Allie!”
I hesitate for a second, looking back to see Stryker on the porch, towel knotted low on his hips.
His eyes lock on mine across the snow, and the world narrows to that single point of contact.
Remy’s snowmobile bursts from the trees, engine snarling, snow spraying in a wide arc. He skids to a stop beside me, helmet visor up, eyes sharp.
“We gotta go, Lyra.”
With an exhalation filled with remorse, I swing on behind him, my arms sliding around his waist, my cheek pressed to the cold leather of his jacket.
Stryker stands motionless on the porch, his face carved from granite and heartbreak. His mouth shapes my name—Allie—but no sound reaches me over the roar of the engine.
Remy guns it.
The snowmobile jerks forward, the track biting hard into the snow, and we rocket into the trees.
Once last time, I twist to look back. Stryker hasn’t moved. His eyes are dark with fury and hurt, and that spears straight through my chest.
I mouth the words across the widening distance.
I’m sorry.