Chapter 9 #2
I pressed closer, my hands finding his chest, and the feel of him beneath my palms made my breath catch.
Hard muscle and heat and the rapid hammering of his heart.
My fingers traced the landscape of scars—raised lines and puckered tissue that told stories of violence and survival—and he shuddered under my touch.
The kiss deepened. Grew desperate.
His hands were everywhere—sliding up my back, tangling in my hair, gripping my hips and pulling me against him.
I felt the heat of him through the thin fabric of my clothes, in the hard planes of muscle and the barely controlled strength in every touch.
The power in his body was overwhelming, the knowledge that he could break me without effort, but every movement was careful.
Restrained. Like he was terrified of hurting me even as he couldn't stop touching me.
I'd been kissed before. Had sex before. Thought I knew what desire felt like.
But this was different.
This was need and want and something deeper I didn't have words for. This was two broken people reaching for each other in the dark, trying to find something good in the middle of hell—trying to prove we were still capable of feeling something other than pain and desperation.
His mouth moved to my jaw, my throat, and I gasped when his teeth grazed my pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to send electricity racing through my veins. His breathing was ragged against my skin, hot and uneven, and I felt the way his hands tightened on my waist—
Then suddenly he jerked back.
Not far. Just enough that I felt the shift in his ribs, saw the wince of pain cross his face as the broken bones protested the movement.
But his hands didn't let go. His fingers stayed locked on my waist, trembling, like he physically couldn't release me even though every instinct was screaming at him to pull away.
"I'm hurting you," he said, voice rough. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. "I'm—"
"You're not—"
"I am." His grip loosened fractionally, but his hands stayed exactly where they were. "I'm too rough. I'm going to—"
"Ahrick—"
He buried his face in my neck and groaned against my skin, the sound vibrating through me.
His whole body shook with the effort of not pulling me back against him.
His hands flexed on my waist—tightening, loosening, tightening again—like he was fighting a battle with himself and losing.
For one heart-stopping moment, I felt him pull me closer, felt him about to surrender to what we both wanted, and then he caught himself.
I pulled at his shoulders, trying to get closer, trying to eliminate every inch of space between us. My fingers found the edge of the bandages I'd wrapped around his ribs and drifted lower to the edge of his loincloth.
He caught my wrist.
"Stop."
The word was rough. Pained. But his body told a different story—his chest heaving, his muscles trembling, his hand still gripping my wrist like he couldn't decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.
Want and self-loathing. Need and unworthiness.
Desire and the absolute conviction that he didn't deserve to feel it.
I froze. "What's wrong?"
"We can't." He pulled back, but his other hand stayed locked on my waist, fingers digging in like an anchor. Like if he let go completely he'd shatter. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not—" He released my wrist and turned away, but his body was still trembling, still taut with barely suppressed desire and self-hatred. "I don't deserve someone like you."
"That's not true." The idea was utterly ridiculous. Other than my grandpa and brother, he was the best man I'd ever known.
"It is." His hands clenched into fists. "You deserve someone who—"
"Don't." I grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me. "Don't decide what I deserve. Don't make that choice for me."
"I killed innocent people."
"And I betrayed everyone who trusted me." My voice was fierce. "I sold out the Alliance. Sold out people who thought I was their friend. I made it possible for Declan to continue his evil. We're both carrying things, Ahrick."
"You were protecting your family. I was just following orders."
"You were lied to. Manipulated. Used as a weapon by someone who didn't care about the consequences.
" I moved closer, my hand sliding up to cup his face again.
I felt the tremor run through him, saw the way his eye squeezed shut like he couldn't bear to see whatever he expected to find in my expression.
But he didn't pull away.
His hand came up, covering mine, pressing my palm harder against his face like he needed the contact even as it burned him.
"I see you. All of you. The assassin and the prisoner and the man who's fighting to be better. And I'm not repulsed."
His eyes opened. "You should be."
"But I'm not." I leaned in, my forehead resting against his. "I want this, Ahrick. I want you. Not because I'm grateful or because you're protecting me. Because when I look at you, I see someone worth caring about."
"Merrilee—"
"Please." The word came out as a whisper. "Don't push me away."
For a long moment he didn't move. Didn't speak.
His arms came around me, pulling me against his chest, and he held me so tightly I could barely breathe. His whole body was shaking—not with desire now, but with something rawer. More desperate.
"I don't deserve you," he said quietly, his voice breaking on the words. "But I'm too selfish to let you go."
I wrapped my arms around him, careful of his injuries, and pressed my face against his shoulder. "Then don't."
We stayed like that for a long time. Just holding each other. His hand stroking my hair—the movement gentle but constant, like he needed the repetition to ground himself. My fingers tracing the scars on his back, feeling the raised tissue, the stories written in his skin.
Eventually he shifted, lying back, and the movement was careful. Deliberate. I settled against his side, my head on his chest, and his arm came around me—not possessive, but protective. Anchoring.
His other hand found my face, fingers brushing across my cheekbone, my jaw, my temple. Light touches. Testing touches. Like he was checking I was still there. Still real. Still choosing to stay.
"Rest," he said softly, but his voice was rough with emotion. "You need to sleep."
"So do you."
"I will." His hand moved back to my hair, fingers sliding through the strands in a slow, soothing rhythm. "After you."
The adrenaline from the kiss was fading, leaving me boneless and warm, exhaustion pulling at me like a tide I couldn't fight.
But I felt the tension still thrumming through his body, felt the way his hand kept moving—stroking my hair, tracing down my spine, coming back up to brush against my shoulder.
Small movements. Constant movements. Like he was afraid if he stopped touching me, I'd vanish.
"Ahrick?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you." I pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "For telling me. For trusting me with it."
His arms tightened around me. "Thank you for not running."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." His voice was rough with emotion. "Because I don't think I could let you go now even if I wanted to."
I smiled against his skin. "Then it's a good thing I'm staying."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand cupped the back of my head, holding me against him, and I felt the tremor run through his chest.
"Sleep, Merrilee," he whispered, but his voice was thick. "I'll keep you safe."
I closed my eyes and let sleep take me, wrapped in the arms of a male who made me feel safer than I'd felt in years.