Chapter 28
CHAPTER 28
CLOVER
O ut the back door, down the alley, and through the vacant streets of Wexford, Damien led me with the stealth and grace of a predator. Because the streets were empty, we could hear the footsteps of every sailor marching from the encampment to the pub, the buzzing propellers of every drone they’d sent out to search for us. But most importantly, we could hear the click-clack of train tracks off in the distance.
Damien knew exactly where to go. We ran parallel to the harbor, catching glimpses of the looming gray warship between and above the buildings we were using for cover. Russian voices bounced down the streets and alleyways between them. But I wasn’t afraid. I was exhilarated. Every time Damien pulled me into an alcove to hide or tucked me behind his back while glancing around a corner, my pulse skyrocketed. The scent of him, the heat of his hard body, the defensiveness of his posture, and the soothing security of his touch—it was a high I’d never known. I’d lived in a state of constant fear for as long as I could remember, but with Damien by my side, I felt safe. I felt free.
No one would ever hurt me again.
The realization brought a smile to my face as we darted across a side street and into the doorway of a flower shop, but the scent of decaying roses inside quickly reminded me just how closely the threat of death still lurked.
Damien pointed across a wide intersection to a squat gray building, standing alone along a stretch of train tracks.
Wexford Station.
I’d assumed it would be guarded by rows of machine gun–toting soldiers, checking IDs and taking women as prisoners, but the simple one-platform station sat just as vacant as the rest of the town. The ground rumbled beneath our feet as the next train approached, and once he was confident that the coast was clear, Damien sprinted across the quiet intersection with my hand in his.
“Ey!” a deep voice shouted from the direction of the harbor just before we disappeared around the side of the station.
Hopping the guardrail, Damien helped me over, and together, we ducked into the shadows of the small, covered platform.
A rabble of Russian voices grew louder in the distance, but their cries and heavy footfalls were immediately drowned out by the squealing brakes of the green-and-white train barreling toward us.
I squeezed Damien’s hand as I waited for the doors to open, glancing back and forth over both shoulders while Damien simply slipped the gun from his holster and waited in deathly stillness.
When the doors finally opened, we darted into the empty car, and Damien immediately pulled me underneath the first table on the right. We sat with our backs against the wall—Damien clutching his gun and me clutching his uninjured arm—as the sound of collective Russian rage came screaming toward us. I squeezed my eyes shut as the doors began to close, bracing myself for the faces of every man Damien had killed to burst through the gap and exact their revenge. But instead of feeling rough hands around my ankles, yanking me to my doom, I felt the floor rumble beneath my arse as the train lurched forward and the wall vibrate against my back as angry fists pounded on the other side of it. I couldn’t understand what the men were shouting, but it didn’t matter. A few seconds later, the only thing I could hear was my own relieved, nervous laughter as we pulled away from the station.
I felt like a madwoman, curled up under a table, cackling like a lunatic, but Damien didn’t judge me. Didn’t call me Crazy Clover. He simply tucked his gun away, turned toward me, and silenced my anxiety with a feral, ravenous kiss.
The collision of our lips felt as strong as a force of nature, like the meeting of two magnets—hard and fast and inevitable. With heaving chests and pounding hearts, Damien and I clung to one another as we devoured each other with panting mouths and grasping hands. I felt safe with him, but Damien felt terrified with me. For me. I could feel the fear radiating off of him in waves as he crushed me to his chest and kissed me like I might disappear.
“It’s okay,” I whispered against his lips, coming up for air. “It’s over.”
Tilting my head, I moaned as he sucked the side of my neck with the same desperate urgency that he’d shown my lips and tongue.
“I’m right here.” Taking his hand, I pressed it to my chest, letting him feel my racing heart.
“I …” The words left my mind as Damien kissed his way down my chest before removing his hand and replacing it with his forehead.
“Shh …” I held his head to my breast as his body began to shake in a silent sob.
He’d been so concerned about helping me process what had happened yesterday that it hadn’t occurred to me that he’d been traumatized too. That he’d experienced almost all of the same horrors, some worse than mine, and he’d had the added fear of trying to keep me safe while protecting himself.
“Hey,” I whispered, running my fingers through his hair. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
As he shuddered in my arms, I felt both his terror and his relief pouring off of him in torrents. If his protection was my freedom, then my presence was his. He could express himself with me. Be himself around me. Bury his pain inside me.
And I would take it, greedily.
Lifting his face until he was looking at me again, I slid my thumbs under his wet lower lashes before pressing a kiss to his beautiful, miserable mouth.
The sensation was overwhelming. My feelings, my need, my fear of trusting someone this much, my fear of losing someone again—it spilled down my cheeks and salted my lips, the perfect contrast to the sweetness I’d found in this man.
The night before, he’d told me to take what I wanted from him, and what I wanted was this. Every raw, unspoken, terrible thing that lurked inside of him. I wanted to free him of that darkness, catch it on my tongue, and swallow it whole.
When Damien dropped his forehead back down to my heart and I ran my fingers through his hair, I finally remembered what I was going to say before.
“I love you,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“Angel …” Damien rasped, coiling his arms around my waist. “The way I feel about you”—he shook his head—“there isn’t a word for it.”
I smiled, knowing that nothing would ever fill me with more joy than hearing Damien Hughes tell me he loved me.
But what I heard next was a close second.
“This train is approaching Castlebridge Station,” a digital voice announced over the speakers. “Transfer here for northbound service to Dublin or continue for westbound service to Waterford, Cork, and Glenshire.”