Chapter 37
Harper
"Stop, James. It’s m…me.” I try to breathe, but my lungs burn.
His fingers tighten around my throat.
Panic flashes through my chest. My mind goes white. And yet, below that is a zing of something deep inside. It confuses me. I push it aside, manage to choke out, “James… It…it’s Harper.”
His jaw is so hard, he could slam through a wall with his chin.
I thought he was emotionless previously, but it’s nothing compared to the almost robotic set of his features.
My stomach drops. My pulse races. The constriction in my throat tightens. Panic grips me.
“James,” I wheeze.
But he doesn’t hear me.
His eyes. Oh God, his eyes. They’re almost colorless. Like ice chips. They're not seeing me. He's somewhere else. Someone else.
It’s as if he’s locked away every ounce of humanity and changed himself into a lethal machine. A weapon. Something that could kill me without blinking.
Is this the zone he had to find when he was on a mission?
Is this why he became emotionless in real life? Because to show his true self is to share his vulnerabilities.
His failings.
And there’s no space for that when it’s a life and death scenario. One mistake, and your life and those of your team are at stake.
He left the Marines, but he hasn’t gotten rid of that iron control.
It’s ingrained so deeply into him that it’s the only thing that feels familiar to him. It must be why he put the 'no emotions' clause in our contract. To protect himself.
"James, please,” I whisper.
The sound barely leaves my throat. He doesn’t hear me.
Air slips away from my lungs. My chest tightens. A hot pressure builds behind my ribs as my body struggles for breath. Black spots flicker at the edge of my vision.
Panic surges first.
But beneath it, something darker stirs. Sharp. Electric.
My pulse pounds harder. Heat rushes through my veins in a way that feels dangerously close to pleasure.
I like it when he chokes me like this.
The danger. The raw edge of it. The way it strips everything away, until there's nothing left but sensation, and the two of us locked inside it.
When he controls my breath, it feels like the purest form of surrender. The realization hits me like a spark. Lust surges through my veins.
I shove the thought away the instant it forms.
My hands fly up, driven by survival instinct. I clutch at his thick wrists.
"James—it’s…it’s your wife." My voice comes out strangled.
I pinch his arm. Hard. Something shifts in his face. His grip loosens.
Like I got through to him.
"James." I manage to yell out through the rawness in my throat. "It was a nightmare."
His eyes focus.
Not all the way. Not yet. But enough that I see the exact moment he realizes it's me. Not whoever he was fighting in his head.
Me.
But he doesn’t release me. Instead, a tremor grips his body.
James Hamilton is shaking. Those blue eyes are haunted, still half-lost in whatever hell he just relived.
“You had a nightmare, but you’re safe now.”
His jaw works. Every muscle in his body is coiled tightly, like he's holding himself back from something.
From me. Or maybe, from himself.
“You’re awake now. You didn’t hurt me. You heard me and you stopped.”
I tighten my hold around his wrist. His pulse hammers against my palm, frantic, terrified, alive.
"You're here. With me. And I'm not afraid of you."
Something breaks in his eyes. The vulnerability in them punches me with the force of a tsunami. This is James. Stripped bare of all posturing. This is James hurting. With his emotions on display. The ghosts of his past still haven’t let go of him completely. But he sees me.
I know then, for sure, that he’d never hurt me. Even if I hadn’t stopped him, he’d have realized it was me and stopped.
Any fear inside me fades away. Everything goes calm.
I slide my hand up. Over his forearm. His bicep. Feeling the tension thrumming through him.
He's not pulling away.
Not moving at all, except for the harsh rise and fall of his chest.
I thread my fingers through his hair. Dark. Thick. Still slightly damp from sleep.
He makes a sound. Low. Broken.
“Ember,” he whispers. “Ember, you’re here.”
How I love that nickname he has for me.
Something soft and melting squeezes my chest. A fierceness grips me. The need to protect him envelops me. To show him…it’s okay to be himself. To share who he is with me. To no longer hide his emotions from me.
I won’t let him hide again. Not from me. I want to soothe him. Protect him in this moment of vulnerability.
I tug him down.
He comes. Willingly. Almost desperately. Like he needs this. Like he needs me. More than air.
I pull his head into my chest, wrap my arms about his massive shoulders, and hug him.
He stiffens, as if the full body contact is a shock to him. But then, degree by degree, he relaxes.
He slides his arms around and under me, enveloping me in those massive arms. And even though it’s me trying to comfort him, I can’t help but also take comfort from the musky scent of his which surrounds me. The hardness of his muscles is contrasted by the almost desperate way he holds me.
The warmth from his body cocoons me. And when he leans more of his weight on me, pinning me to the bed, it doesn’t feel constricting. Instead, it makes me feel secure.
I hug him even closer. I tuck his head under my chin, trying to shelter him with comfort. Communicating to him the best I can without words that he's safe.
He’s so densely built; it feels like I’m hugging tempered steel wrapped in velvet. His body is all hard, unyielding, like it’s hewn from stone. There’s no soft place for me to land.
My chest twinges.
There’s not going to be a soft landing for me if I lose my heart to him. Though it might be a little too late for that.
I run my fingers through his hair, enjoying the feel of the thick strands.
He makes a contented sound at the back of his throat. His naked body relaxes further, pressing me into the bed. I’d be lying if I said the way he feels against me doesn't feel good and isn’t its own type of torture. But it’s also strangely comforting.
I’ve never felt this safe. This content as I do now, in his bed, surrounded by his sheets, with him nestled in between my breasts.
When he sighs again, and his body completely relaxes, I feel guilty for enjoying having him in my arms. He’s recovering from a nightmare brought on by what I realize must be PTSD, and all I can think of is jumping him.
“Maybe I should leave?” I try to edge away from under him.
He doesn’t budge.
“Stay.” He yawns and burrows further between my breasts. His breath warms my skin through the thin material of my sleeping T-shirt.
His breathing deepens. His body gives that little telltale jerk which tells me he’s asleep.
I’m so warm. So comfortable. My eyelids close, and I quickly follow him into sleep.
When I wake up in the morning, it’s to find he’s propped his chin in the palm of his hand. He’s looking down at me.
I look into those eyes, blue like the deep end of the ocean. “Hi.”