Chapter 21
twenty-one
. . .
Rowan
Violet slips her arm through mine as we head for the door, laughing at something Whitley says over her shoulder. It’s one of those unseasonably warm days for March that tricks you into believing winter’s done for good, but now that the sun’s gone, the night has cooled fast.
I barely register the chill, though. It’s impossible with her beside me, looking the way she does.
Jesus. Her sundress is soft and some kind of silky blue that hits her thighs and makes me think of every place I want to touch. She probably threw it on without a second thought or clue that it would wreck me.
I’m trying to be good. I am.
But it’s damn near impossible when she looks and laughs like that and makes me feel like I’m seventeen again with no clue what the hell to do with my hands.
The words are out before I can stop them. “Come home with me.”
She looks up at me with a startled expression, and her lips part. For half a breath, I think I’ve ruined everything.
“I don’t expect anything,” I add quickly, holding her gaze. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, Violet. I just want more time with you. That’s all.”
Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe I should’ve just walked her to her car and said goodnight like a gentleman. But I’m really not any kind of fucking gentleman.
“I rode with Whit,” she says softly.
“I can get you home,” I say, before she can finish the thought. “If Whitley doesn’t mind. And only if you want to.”
Violet glances over her shoulder at Beau, who’s offering Whitley the most begrudging one-word responses humanly possible. Whitley looks unbothered, if not downright delighted.
Violet turns back to me. “I want to.”
I nod, something loosening in my chest.
“Whitley,” she calls, tugging her arm free from mine for a second.
Her best friend looks up, one brow arched.
“Can I grab my bag from your car?”
Whitley’s eyes widen. “Oh hell yes,” she says, sprinting forward so fast Beau actually flinches. “God, I love being right.”
Violet just rolls her eyes, cheeks pink now.
Whitley digs around in her purse for her keys, finally producing them and unlocking the car. “Take care of her, Wolfe.”
“Always.”
Whitley gives a satisfied nod before turning back to Beau. “Nice meeting you, big guy.”
“Yep.” His expression is impassive, but I don’t miss the way his eyes track her as she walks away.
I steer Violet toward my truck, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back. When we pull up, the porch light’s on, and Bramble’s excited bark echoes from inside. Violet smiles at the sound, and something about the way it tugs at her mouth makes my chest ache in a good way.
I kill the engine and climb out, circling around to open her door before she can reach for it. She steps down when I pull it open, close enough that I catch a whiff of her perfume—warm and a little sweet, like summer peaches and trouble.
“Ignore the dog hair. Bramble sheds like she’s trying to give life to a second dog.”
The lock clicks and the door barely cracks before Bramble bursts out, tail wagging so hard her whole body moves with it. She barrels into Violet, and instead of stepping back, Violet drops to her knees, laughing as Bramble lavishes her with kisses.
Her laugh…fuck. It slices straight through me. That laugh makes me want to be better, to earn it, to protect it from ever dimming.
“Okay, okay,” she says between giggles. “I’m happy to see you, too.”
I clear my throat, gesturing toward the open door. “Come on in.”
Violet comes to a stand and steps past me, brushing against my chest just enough to steal my breath. Just like that, the house already seems different.
Lighter. Warmer.
She pauses just inside the entry, taking it all in. The low lighting, the scuffed hardwood floors, the well-loved leather couch with Bramble’s blanket permanently draped across the arm. It’s not much, but it’s mine.
“Want something to drink?” I ask, heading toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer. “I’ve got water, soda, maybe a couple beers if the fridge gods are feeling generous.”
“Water’s good,” she says, following behind me. I can feel her eyes on my back, and I’m trying not to make too big a deal of it, but it is a big deal.
She leans against the counter as I hand her a glass.
“This place,” she says softly, cradling the water in both hands, “I love it. Your house. The land. The quiet.”
Her gaze drifts toward the back window. “I’ve always wanted something like this. A house that’s tucked away from everything. Room to breathe. Space for animals.” Her smile turns shy, almost hopeful. “Probably a few too many.”
“You want a whole zoo?”
She smiles to herself, eyes distant for a beat. “I wouldn’t say no to a few goats. A big mutt like Bramble. Maybe a horse if I ever figure out how to be that brave.”
I can see her here so clearly—barefoot on the porch, legs tucked under her, coffee mug warming her hands. Some stubborn goat raising hell near the barn. Bramble stretched out, snoring at her feet. Sunlight on her face.
If I’m being honest with myself, I bought this place with her in mind. Not in some grand, premeditated way. During those long nights when the silence echoed too loud and the ache set in, I built a life I didn’t think I’d ever get to share with her but made space for her in it anyway.
Now she’s standing in my kitchen, smiling like she can see it, too.
I clear my throat, forcing the thoughts back. “Come on,” I say, reaching for her hand.
She follows me into the living room and settles in beside me on the couch. Bramble pads over and flops at our feet with a content sigh.
Violet’s eyes drift to my arm. “I’ve been wondering about these,” she says softly, her fingers skimming along the edge of my forearm where the ink disappears beneath my sleeve.
I glance down, watching her trace the outline of a tattooed wing that curves around my bicep. “Which one?”
“Any of them. All of them,” she says, looking up at me with those green eyes.
“This one,” I say, rolling up my sleeve to reveal the full spread of black wings that wrap around my upper arm. “I got it after my second tour.”
Her touch is featherlight as she traces the outline.
“We lost someone,” I say. “From our unit. He was this kid from Georgia with the world’s worst poker face. Couldn’t lie to save his life. Always talking about his mom’s blackberry cobbler.”
I shake my head. “He stepped on an IED right in front of me.”
Violet’s hand stills on my arm, her eyes wide and focused on mine.
“Wings were his thing,” I continue. “He had this saying about how we all needed wings to get home. That we were watching over each other.” I flex my arm slightly, the ink rippling. “So I got these. For him.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just traces the outline with gentle fingertips. “What was his name?”
“Kevin,” I say.
She nods, her touch reverent now. She brushes her thumb over the inside of my forearm where the ink is older and faded. “And this one, the flower?”
It’s small, subtle, easy to miss unless you’re looking for it. I got it the night before I left for boot camp. I was fucking terrified, but I needed something permanent. Something that wouldn’t change even if everything else did.
Her thumb stops mid-stroke, eyes widening as they meet mine. “Is this…a violet?”
I swallow, suddenly feeling exposed. “Yeah,” I murmur. “That one’s yours.”
She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that every muscle in my forearm burns with the need to reach for her.
Her eyes are shining in the dim light. She swallows, and it’s the smallest thing, but I see the way her throat moves, the way her lips part like she’s about to say something and then changes her mind.
Then, she finally says, “You got this? For me?”
“I did. Before I left. You were always the only soft thing in my world, Violet. I wanted to keep you close.”
I almost laugh because it sounds so fucking cheesy, but it’s true.
“Rowan…are you trying to make me cry?’
“No. Maybe a little?” I huff a breath. “I don’t know, am I doing a good job?”
She grins, but her eyes are still glassy, caught in that fragile space where everything’s right on the brink of unraveling. “Well, you’re doing something.”
I shift closer, brushing my knuckles along the back of her hand. “I feel for you today the same way I did then. I know your heart, Violet. Even after all this time. I know I’ve got some catching up to do, but I’m going to get it right this time.”
She looks at me then. Really looks, like she’s reading every word I’m too chicken to say out loud. Her fingers weave with mine, so delicate it might’ve gone unnoticed if not for the way it sends little shocks up my arm. I hold tight, afraid she’ll pull away if I breathe wrong.
Violet’s lips part, and for a split second, I think she might laugh it off or make a joke. Then her mouth trembles, and a tear slips down her cheek, bright against her impossibly perfect skin.
I can’t handle it. I can take a punch, a bullet, hell, even my old man’s worst day—but I can’t take this. I brush the tear away with my thumb, gentle as I can.
She draws a shaky breath, and her hand clings tighter to mine. “I missed you,” she whispers. “I missed you so much, Rowan. I missed you every day.”
Whatever restraint I have left burns away.
I pull her into my lap, arms wrapping around her, trying to hold her together by force alone, and kiss her.
None of the slow, careful shit from before.
I kiss her with everything I am, everything I lost, and everything I found in her.
She kisses me back, desperate and sweet, her tears mixing with the taste of her mouth and my own want.
I shift, guiding her gently onto her back as I brace myself above her. My knees sink into the couch cushion, caging her in without pinning her down even though I really fucking want to do just that.
Her fingers slide up the back of my neck, nails dragging just enough to spark heat straight down my spine, and I swear I forget every reason I ever thought we’d never get here.
The sound she makes when my mouth finds hers again is a new kind of addiction.
It’s soft, but it hits deep. Her body arches, legs tangling with mine, hands greedy as they splay across my shoulders.
I want to memorize every inch of her, every freckle and scar, every place that makes her gasp or tremble.
I want to erase every second I spent pretending this wasn’t what I’d been starving for my whole damn life.
But as much as I want to take my time, there’s this darker pull that wants to flip her over, press her down, and make her realize exactly how much I’ve been holding back.
I swallow it down, kiss along her jaw and down her throat, careful not to rush. “Is this okay?”
She nods, breathless. “Don’t stop.”
Yeah, that doesn’t help.
I exhale a quiet curse against her skin and keep going.
I kiss her everywhere. The corner of her mouth, the hollow beneath her ear.
Everywhere I touch, she reacts, and I file it all away, every hitch of breath, every shift of her hips.
My control is stretched thin over something that’s a hell of a lot stronger than restraint.
I drag myself back up to her mouth, but my hips betray me, pressing forward once before I can stop it.
She gasps and her eyes snap open. Then her legs hook around my waist, pulling me closer, holding me there like she wants more.
Jesus.
My grip tightens on the cushion beside her head, knuckles going white as I freeze for half a beat and shove the instinct to give in as far down as I can. If I let it take over, I’m not sure I’ll go slow anymore.
I’d ruin her if she asked me to. I’d give her everything right now, on the couch, with the dog snoring not five feet away, and the taste of her mouth still fresh on my tongue. I want her. I want all of her. But I also want to do this right.
I settle my weight beside her and kiss her again, softer, slower. My hands slide up her arms, and I pull her against me, just holding her. Her breath is shaky, but she’s grinning and I can’t help but smile back.
She buries her face in my chest, her hands fisted tight in the fabric of my shirt. I keep her there, just holding her, brushing my thumb along the bare skin of her thigh where her dress has ridden up.
“Rowan,” she says, muffled against my shirt, “do you need—”
“Shh,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head. “Just let me hold you, yeah?”
Her soft curves press into all the places I’m trying really hard not to think about right now.
Her leg hooks over mine like it’s second nature, and fuck.
I want to be the man who holds her like this and doesn’t think about the way the strap of her dress slips just enough to reveal the slope of her shoulder and the soft swell of her tits.
I’m only so strong, and there’s nothing gentlemanly about the way I’m hard for her right now. Nothing chivalrous about the fact that the bulge in my jeans is pressing uncomfortably against the zipper, that I keep having to adjust how I’m lying just so I don’t lose my damn mind.
She deserves patience. She deserves intention. She deserves me showing her with every touch that this isn’t just want—it’s her. Always has been.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?”
She looks up at me with a lazy smile and wide, innocent emerald eyes that aren’t fooling anyone. “Me?”
God help me.