Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
SCARLETT
Donovan doesn’t clear the plates right away. Instead, he watches me finish, a hint of satisfaction behind his gaze.
“That’ll do?” he finally asks gruffly.
It reminds me of the high school gymnasium with its gaudy strung lights. Dallas, the rodeo announcer-turned-auctioneer with too much bling and bravado, and the handsome man who first strode my way ask that same question.
I laugh. “You know that’s the first thing you ever said to me,” I say, shaking my head. I bite my bottom lip, my breath coming faster now. “Yes, you do… more than you could ever know.”
He nods once, slowly, like he’s still measuring something in his head. Trying to figure things out. I can’t blame him. “Then, you called me too tall, and I called you short.”
“A regular gentleman,” I huff a laugh.
“Didn’t know what else to say to you,” he confesses, cheeks warming. “You had my insides all knotted.”
“Like a stomach ache?” I ask, concern threading my voice.
“Like butterflies.”
The world narrows to our heated gaze.
I clear my throat, trying to pull myself together. “Thank you,” I add. “For the best night of my life, too.”
His gaze sizzles. “Doesn’t have to be once.”
My vision blurs. I haven’t let myself think like this in too long.
“And you didn’t do anything wrong. From what you’ve told me,” he reaches across the table, his fingers lightly brushing over my skin. “You were a hero, Marielle. Standing up for a little girl when no one else could.”
I let out a sob, bringing my hand to my mouth to hold back the next one. “I tried… I wish I had done better. But I tried.”
“That’s all we can do sometimes.” His voice drifts off for a long moment.
When his eyes find my gaze again, he admits, “I’ve lost people on rescues.
It’s only happened a couple of times. But afterwards, I racked my brains for days, weeks, months…
Hell, sometimes I still do, trying to figure out what I didn’t do enough of, or what I did too much of. Or why it had to happen at all.”
My head darts up, voice hopeful. “And have you ever figured out why?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s the devil’s bargain of trying to help others. You never know the outcome. Or how fate will see things. But you still have to try… when others won’t.”
His hand leaves mine, and he stands gathering plates.
In the kitchen, he rinses them and puts them in the dishwasher.
I should help. Politeness nudges, but between the wild night, the hangover, the break-in, and now this…
confiding in someone for the first time in twelve months, I can’t make my feet move.
I stare at the wooden table top too hard, scrutinizing it. Like it has the answers I need.
Then, a low sound cuts through the quiet.
Music.
I open my eyes. Donovan’s at the counter, phone in hand, something slow and steady filling the room. Something you can move to without thinking.
Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire.
He crosses the distance, holding out his huge hand. “We missed our first dance last night, you know.” It comes out like gravel and velvet all at once.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.
“Probably not. But when have good decisions been our thing, Marielle?”
My name—my real name—on his lips does something to me. It puts a throb deep in my lower core, where I can still feel what we did last night. Makes me want to do it again, no matter the outcome.
“Are you sure we didn’t have a first dance?” I ask, taking his hand, savoring its strong warmth. “I mean, I do remember a lot of dancing.”
His laugh rumbles in his throat as he pulls me closer. Not all the way but just enough to make the thin sliver of air between us feel unnecessary.
“Pretty sure we didn’t dance after,” he says, hand sliding into the hollow of my back with a firm pressure that remains polite but loaded with dark promises.
“I get the impression you remember exactly what we did after,” I whisper, sliding closer, sighing low and satisfied when our bodies touch.
“I remember everything,” he says. “Because none of it’s forgettable… not with you, Burgundy.”
Something breaks loose behind my chest. I don’t know what to say next. Too many thoughts fight for my attention.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, his mouth closer to mine than it should be. But I don’t back away.
I shake my head. “That we shouldn’t have done what we did. That it was more my fault than I’ve admitted up to this point…” I look away for a moment, cheeks flushed. “That I wouldn’t change any of it.”
He sighs low and seductive. Almost a growl.
“But I do wish I had never drug you into this.”
His hand comes up, pushing my hair gently off my face. “You keep telling me what I should and shouldn’t want. But what if there’s no rules for this? No right or wrong? Just us both working through this—together?”
His mouth is so close to mine, I can feel the heat of his warm breath. I lean up on my tiptoes, covering his lips with mine—gentle, exploratory.
A soft groan escapes his lips as they move. Not taking too much, just enjoying the moment. Then, he pulls back half an inch, asking breathlessly, “You remember that?”
My voice catches in my throat. I can’t speak. Instead, I let my hand rest on his shoulder, staring up at him and nodding once.
The music moves around us, slow and measured. He shifts first, guiding me. I follow because it’s easier than thinking. And because somehow, despite everything that’s happened, it feels right.
We continue like that through one song, two, three—quiet and close.
Then my hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck. My fingers brush his hair, and something snaps.
A flash. His mouth at my ear.
My laugh.
His hand tightening on my waist.
“Careful,” he murmured.
I inhale sharply. “Last night, at some point, you told me to be careful. Do you remember why?”
“‘Course I do,” he answers. “Told you to be careful with my heart.” He clears his throat, thumb coming up to trace my jawline. Heat follows his touch, settling low in my body.
“That still a rule?” I ask.
“A rule only for you.”
“Why?” I ask, eyes locked with his. Time has stopped. Only music, movement, and this man remain.
“Because you’re the only one I’m trusting with it.”
Trust. Two days ago, I would’ve said I don’t trust anyone. But now, staring into the eyes of this stranger—my husband—I can’t deny it.
Our mouths meet again, slow and heated. My lips parting, an invitation. He sweeps into me like he already owns me, and my self-control unravels a little more.
I remember enough now to know last night was hot, impetuous, spontaneous. But this feels intentional, decided, like we’re choosing each other in the full knowledge of what that choice means.
We break, breathing hard, hands exploring, eyes simmering.
“I much prefer this sober,” he says, his hands squeezing my hips, drawing me hard against him now. I can feel his length, and I gasp. No wonder I was sore this morning.
“Me, too. Want to remember everything about this.”
“Don’t have to remember if we stick together.”
His words land hard.
God, I want him. I want this. But how do we make this work?
I don’t know.
But I do know one thing. “I trust you,” I whisper. The words sound reckless… and right.
His hand shifts against my side, a slight movement, but it does something.
Another flicker of memory washes over me. My back against a wall. His breath on my throat. My fingers curling into his shirt.
“I wanted you last night,” I admit, head spinning. “In the alleyway, I begged.”
“You did.” His voice is dark and dangerous. “In the hotel room, too.”
I close my eyes, letting the memories come, allowing them to move through me. They were never that far beneath the surface. Just buried beneath fear and uncertainty and the guilt of dragging him into this with me. Of needing him more than I’m willing to admit.
“Your mouth,” I whisper. “Your fingers…” Heat floods my body, need throbbing low. “You’re...” I don’t say the last part because he knows.
“All of that,” he says, snagging my finger and raising my gaze until our eyes lock. “And we said yes. Because some part of you wanted it, and some part of me wanted it, too. Now, we figure out why.”
His mouth is inches from mine again. We’re sharing the same heat and breath. And nothing feels wrong about this.
“But I’m in WITSEC, and the person I’m hiding from… He broke into my house. I’m almost certain. Once I make the call, once I let the U.S. Marshals know, they won’t let me stay.”
I should be on the phone with them right now. I should be moving, changing my name, embarking on a new life somewhere else.
That’s what I should be doing. Not falling for the stranger I married last night.
“What you’ve been doing isn’t working,” he says firmly. “Maybe it’s time to try something else. Something less lonely.”
Another memory hits. “We were here,” I whisper. “Just like this in the hotel hallway before you let us back into the room.”
He nods once. “After the tattoo parlor. After we made things permanent but before they were final.”
My grip tightens at his neck, desire throbbing between my legs. His hand presses more firmly at my waist. “I need more final,” I whisper. “Need it with you.”
His answer is a deep-chested growl. His mouth takes mine, and we move slowly and deliberately, as if we have all the time in the world. As if I don’t need to make the call or leave.
My pulse stutters hard. “Donovan,” I breathe.
Another memory hits harder this time.
The way he held me, and how I held him back. The thing we created together… the longing and reverence between us.
I pull in a breath against his mouth. “This is still a bad idea,” I whisper.
“Yeah, but we don’t need all the answers tonight. We just need each other.”
His hand shifts. My fingers tighten. The music keeps playing—slow and steady. Like it’s waiting for us to decide what this is.
What we are.
I don’t.
Because I can’t.
But I don’t step back either.