Chapter 32 | Anna #2
His arm slid around my waist, his palm resting against my ribs. Not tight. Holding. His chest pressed against my back. His breath whispered along my neck.
“It doesn’t have to be now,” he said.
But if not now, then when? Because something told me I’d always have to fight this thing in my head. And if I didn’t learn to fight it, learn to keep it at bay, this was as far as we’d ever go. And that wasn’t fair to either of us.
My hand landed on his. Our fingers intertwined.
“You can touch me,” I said. “I want you to.”
Because I needed to know what would happen when he did. I needed to know if I was going to have to fight it again.
He moved his other hand along my waist. Tentative. Slow. Slipping between material and skin and moving downward. A wild heartbeat thudded against my ribcage.
He slid his hand down between my legs and the heat exploded through me.
My head fell back against his solid chest as a sound I didn’t recognize ripped through me. The blood roared in my ears, blocking out everything as the world narrowed.
And then that cold place was back, trying to activate. I made a strangled sound. He started to pull away but the word don’t ripped out of me before I could stop it.
I squeezed his hand still on my ribs. Tight. Pushing that threat away. Not letting it consume me.
He bowed his head to my neck, breathing me in like he was holding himself steady through me—or losing himself entirely. The sound he made was low and broken, nothing like the man who always measured his reactions.
I squeezed my eyes shut, the pressure building and building. Until there was nothing but a blinding flash that pounded through my head, against my closed eyes. Until it shattered me. Broke me. A choked sound escaped. Strained.
The only reason I didn’t crumple was because he still held me against him.
My breathing was ragged. I’d passed the first hurdle. Nothing activated. If I could do that, then I could do more. I had to focus on the one thing that anchored me.
I tugged at the button on my pants, pushed them away. He released me. Then, behind me, the rustle of material.
His hand took mine. He led me to the bed, turned to face me. His hands cupped my face. Kissed me once, then sat on the edge pulling me closer while I remained standing. My hands rested on his shoulders while his lips pressed the base of my throat underneath my fluttering pulse.
“Mine.” His breath whispered over my skin.
And then I was completely undone.
He eased back, pulling me with him, fitting me against him like I was the piece that was always missing. Hands on my hips, guiding me, connecting.
Once more, that place in my head flared. I sucked in a breath, sitting upright. His fingers tightened on me.
“Do we—”
“Wait.” The word rasped out of me.
I grabbed his hand, pulled it up to my face, felt it against my cheek. I forced the pain away, fighting for every breath, every heartbeat, every touch. Succeeding quicker that time. I pressed a kiss against his palm as the pain abated.
Slowly at first, I rocked against him. I focused on his hands, the way he touched me, the way I moved against him. And the pain stayed away. Because I focused.
When I fell forward, he held me against him, kissing him, letting that wave sweep through me again. Through us.
And all I could think was… I found my way back to us. And the best part… he’d let me.
Afterward, my head was on his chest, his hands in my hair. I was right about one thing—I would have to fight this thing in my head every time. But, I decided, the more practice we had the better I’d get at it.
“Was that—” I stopped myself before asking it. I didn’t want to know.
“It was everything.”
Oh.
He pulled his fingers through my hair, and I felt the brush of his mind against mine. Not like those moments when he talked in my head. This was different. Subtle. Gentle.
I realized—his guard was down. He let me feel it. Testing me. Gauging my reaction.
I lay motionless against him, trying to tame the sudden, erratic beating of my heart. Trying to grasp what happened. And I understood.
His walls were down.
And what poured into me right then wasn’t emotion or instinct—it was history. His.
Jericho first—sunbaked mud brick, the rough scrape of a simple life. Farmers. Fields. Then Jerusalem—stone and sweat and the ache of wanting something different. Temple Mount. The Second Temple. Hands raw. A chain around his throat that wasn’t visible but was real.
And then—the Brotherhood. Not salvation. Not mercy. Recruitment. Purpose handed to him like a weapon.
A girl’s face—warmth, laughter—and the moment the Brotherhood’s violence took her, something in him went cold.
The boy died. The warrior took his place.
And it cut me to the bone.
His birth name whispered into my mind. A name he’d buried with the girl he loved. A name he shared with no one.
A name he wanted me to know without saying it.
Like giving me the key and trusting I’d never turn it.
I shifted, moved on top of him and met his blazing eyes. And for a second his steely guard flickered back into place.
“I see you,” I said softly.
The words settled between us like a promise.
His eyes closed. When he opened them again, the wariness was gone. What remained was quiet certainty. His hand brushed down my cheek.
“I chose you.”
And I knew—knew—he always would.