Chapter 11
Elowen
“Get lost,” he snaps without turning around.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, ready to turn when he stands up abruptly and faces me.
“It wasn’t meant for you,” he mutters. Darkness gathers in his gaze, the hardness in it softening the longer ours stay locked.
“Then who?”
The way he holds me in his attention sparks beneath my skin, waking every cell.
“Someone came here before you.”
I walk to the bench and sit. My legs feel weak, the alcohol has made them incapable of holding my weight.
I look up at him. With the warm, dim lights framing his face, his features aren’t clear, and this sets off a train of the same thought: He’s Salvario. My Salvario. How is it possible for him to be just like him? No, it’s not. He’s my Salvario.
I reach out to hold his hand, but stop when I see there’s no glove on it, and the skin isn’t burnt and rough. I drop my hand back into my lap. His fist clenches at his side. He isn’t Salvario. He’s Hunter Blackwood, from Toronto. He only resembles the man I love.
“Why do you look at me like that?” I murmur, lifting my gaze to him.
“How?”
“Like my Salvario.”
He lets out a long, audible exhale, turning his head away. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes come back to me soon after they leave.
“Come sit,” I say, patting the space beside me.
He sits. The smell of tobacco is stronger now than the citrus-and-spice of his cologne.
“You shouldn’t smoke. It’s not good for your health,” I murmur, resting my head on the backrest of the bench and turning toward him.
“You shouldn’t drink.”
I turn onto my side more, finding a more comfortable position for my heavy head and body. “But I’m not an addict.”
“I’m not an addict either,” he says in that monotone Salvario voice.
I blink slowly, heavy with sleep. “Yeah, right. Every addict says that.”
“I know the things that could make me an addict, and smoking isn’t one of them.”
“What are those things?” I slur.
He turns his head and looks ahead, into the dark. I want his eyes on me, I need to feel alive in the way only those eyes can make me feel.
I place my forefinger under his chin and turn his face toward me. The light stubble pricks at my fingertip; his skin is warm against mine, the difference in temperature searing through me.
His eyes darken, not a change in color from the lighting, but a shift in the intention behind his gaze on me. I’ve seen that look far too many times to misinterpret it. My body knows what follows when those gray eyes lock onto me like that, and it heats up in anticipation.
I drag my attention away from the storm of his heated stare and let it settle on his lips, and the illusion those eyes and voice have wrapped me in shatters. Nausea rises up my throat, and before I can stop it, I puke. All over him. All over me.
“Fuck. Sorry,” I mumble, wiping my mouth.
He looks down at the mess I’ve made on both of us, then rises unhurriedly, as if he isn’t covered in my vomit.
It must be so revolting, why isn’t he throwing up?
So unattractive, Elowen.
I make a mental note in my spinning head: I will never drink again.
I think I say that mental note out loud, before the spinning inside turns into spinning outside as I start to get up, and I fall.
Not onto the ground or the bench. Into an embrace I’d almost accepted only death would bring me back to.
“I missed you,” I murmur, letting my eyes fall shut as I wrap my arms around his neck.
“Do you know I was planning to die after I set this entire city rebuild in motion, because I thought you were dead?” I slur, my voice thick.
He doesn’t say anything, but his grip cinches around my shoulders and thighs, pulling me tight against his chest, as if a loose hold might give someone the chance to snatch me from his arms.
I slowly drift into sleep, but a sudden, jarring movement pulls me upright. One moment I’m sinking into the best kind of warmth in the world, the next I’m standing on my feet, dragged back into awareness too fast to make sense of it.
“But then you came,” I mumble, trying to remember what I was saying a second ago—no, a minute ago—no, maybe an hour ago, and lock my arms around him.
He smells awful, then it dawns on me: it’s my vomit on him. I stumble back and force my eyes open, but they close again as warm water sprays over them.
I sway under the water, but I don’t fall, two strong hands have clutched my arms.
“Do you like my new haircut?” I drawl.
“No.”
“I knew it. But I still did it because I’m mad at you. You lied to me,” I slur, petulantly, eyes still closed.
“When?”
“You said you’d given up on your revenge, but you didn’t. Will you do that again?” I move back from the water and open my eyes. Two Salvarios are swaying in front of me. “I won’t forgive you this time. I’ll hate you forever.”
My words aren’t entirely coherent, but I know he understands them, he always does. He doesn’t even need words to understand me.
“I won’t do anything that could make you hate me.”
I grin, swaying forward, falling into his chest. Now it doesn’t smell bad, it smells delicious. Like something I should bite. So I do. I sink my teeth into the hard muscle of his chest through his shirt. Only a small piece comes between my teeth.
A low groan vibrates through him before he pushes me back.
I pout, looking up at him through the spray. “What’s your problem?”
“I should ask you that,” he hisses.
I move forward, but he holds me back. “I want to eat you a little. Don’t be stingy—let me.”
He shakes me. “Do you know who I am?”
I nod, my head bobbing like a malfunctioning doll. “You’re a tyrant, a monster, a liar, a grumpy old man.” I grin. “I just called you old. Won’t you punish me?”
“I’m not Salvario,” he bites out, his voice hard and cold, but his attempt at sounding so doesn’t work. I’m not buying it.
I sway forward. “Liar.”
The water shuts off from above. He pulls me out of the shower and sits me on the edge of the bathtub. I press my head against the wall and watch him.
He takes the bathrobe hanging there, comes back, hands it to me, and orders coldly: “Take off your clothes and put this on.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he leaves me and walks out of the bathroom. What’s wrong with him?
I struggle with my clothes for what feels like an hour at least, maybe more, cursing the man who left me alone to suffer.
Finally, I get rid of my jumpsuit, bra, and panties, and pull on the bathrobe. It’s his, and as always, three sizes too big for me. I tie the knot haphazardly and leave the bathroom. He’s sitting on the bed with the grumpiest look on his new face. Even with a new face, he’s still a sulking old man.
I punch him in the face as soon as I reach him.
“You’re the worst boyfriend. I’ll give you a one-star rating with a big, ranty review.”
He pulls at the knot of my bathrobe. I climb into his lap, looping my arms around his neck.
“If you think I’ll let you have your way with me after ditching me in the bathroom, then you’re very wrong.” I poke his cheek, mumbling against his mouth. “I’m very, very mad.”
His eyes bore into my face, heating me from within.
“Don’t seduce me with those eyes.”
His hands move to the knot of my bathrobe. He removes them shortly after, and the thing is still on my body. Only when I look down do I realize he’s tied the knot tighter instead of opening it. I purse my lips and climb off his lap.
“Fuck you. I’ll change my name before I let you touch me again in this life.” I spin around in a mad movement, and the world spins with me, my footing slipping out from under me.
The man I now hate catches me before I can fall. I push away from him and walk to the other side of the bed, lying down with my back turned to him.
“Monster. Tyrant. Old man. Liar.” I curse him over and over until my words fade, leaving only my lips moving.