4. Chapter 4- August
Someone else’s tooth just came out of Lenora’s hand and all I can think about is kissing her.
There’s something seriously wrong with me.
One hundred and seventy-four years alive. Eight times watching the same woman tear me apart simply because I couldn’t stop loving her.
And apparently none of it taught me a fucking thing.
“August.”
I drag my eyes away from her mouth. “What?”
“You haven’t said anything.”
Because I don’t know what to say. Because I have spent almost forty years preparing for Lenora to return, and within a few hours, every rule I’ve made has turned to ash.
No touching.
Broken.
No memories.
Broken.
No attachment.
Broken before she ever knew I existed.
And now there’s a yellowed tooth sitting on her bedroom floor that belongs to neither of us.
I crouch and examine it without touching it.
Small. Human. Old.
There’s a perfectly drilled hole through the root. Not decay.
Intentional.
I know enough about old burial practices to recognize something made to be worn. A charm. A keepsake. Maybe jewelry.
But I’ve never seen it before.
Not in 1897.
Not in 1908.
Not in 1921.
Not in 1944.
Not in 1967.
Not in 1988.
Never.
“Whose is it?” She asks.
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Lenora folds her arms. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar.”
“Not with me.”
That shuts me up.
My expression shifts.
She sees it. Of course she fucking does. She always sees me. Even when she doesn’t remember me.
Especially then.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That look.”
I straighten. “What look?”
“Like I said something I’m supposed to remember.”
“You didn’t.”
“August.”
“Lenora.”
She glares.
I almost smile. Almost.
Then I notice the blood. A thin line runs from the opening in her palm down her wrist.
I move instinctively. “You’re bleeding.”
“So were you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I don’t care about me.” The words leave my mouth before I can catch them.
Her face changes.
Fuck.
I reach for her hand then stop myself. My fingers hover inches from hers.
She looks down at the space between us then up at me. “You’re scared to touch me.”
“No.”
“You’re terrified.”
“I’m cautious.”
“You jumped across an entire room because I peeled my neck.”
“Because you shouldn’t have.”
“You held me.”
“That was different.”
“You grabbed my hand.”
“That was necessary.”
“You had your arm around me upstairs.”
“Lenora.”
“And now you’re standing there acting like touching my hand is going to kill you.”
“It might.”
Silence.
Her eyes drop to my hand then she reaches for me.
I step back.
She stops and something flashes across her face.
Rejection.
It shouldn’t hurt me.
Instead, it fucking guts me.
“Don’t.”
Her hand lowers. “Fine.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You literally told me not to touch you.”
“Because I don’t know what happens when we do.”
“You said memories.”
“Before the tooth.”
Her eyes flick toward the floor. “Right.”
I should leave. I know that. Get out of this room. Out of this building. Out of this city. Put a thousand miles between us before morning.
I’ve done it before.
It never works.
But I should try.
Instead, I look at her hand. “Let me clean that.”
“I can clean my own hand.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Because I remember every wound you’ve ever had. Because I’ve watched you bleed across lifetimes. Because some primitive, pathetic part of me still believes it’s my responsibility to put you back together.
“Because I’m asking.”
Her expression softens. “Okay.”
One word.
A dangerous fucking word.
She follows me into the bathroom.
I turn on the sink.
The room is too small.
Immediately.
Painfully.
Lenora stands behind me while I wet a washcloth. I can see her in the mirror. She can see me. Neither of us looks away.
“Give me your hand.”
She does.
I hold her wrist instead of her palm. Even that is too much.
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers.
Mine answers.
I clean the blood carefully. The opening has already begun closing.
Of course it has.
Her body repairs itself faster during the molt.
Renews. Replaces. Takes.
“What happens when it’s finished?”
I keep my eyes on her hand. “You already know.”
“No. I know you die.”
My fingers pause.
“What happens to me?”
“You live.”
“As you?”
I look at her. “Not exactly.”
Her throat moves when she swallows. “What does that mean?”
“Pieces of me become part of you.”
“Physically?”
“At first.”
“And then?”
I don’t answer.
“August.”
“Memories.”
She goes still. “Yours?”
“Yes.”
“Personality?”
“Some.”
“Do I become you?”
“No.”
“Then what do I become?”
I wish I knew. “More.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “That’s vague as fuck.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
I turn her hand over.
The cut is almost gone. My thumb accidentally brushes the center of her palm.
She inhales.
I freeze as heat crawls up my arm. Not a memory. Not pain. Something older than either. Recognition.
Her fingers curl slightly around mine. “August.”
Fuck.
I should release her. Instead, my thumb moves again slowly across her palm.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Shit.
There are moments when a person knows they’re about to make a mistake.
This is one of them.
The body becomes a traitor first.
Breathing changes. Heart rate accelerates.
Pupils dilate. Every rational thought begins backing toward the exit while something ancient takes control.
I’ve known Lenora’s body in eight forms. None of them looked exactly like this.
And somehow every one of them felt the same when she stood this close.
“Tell me to stop,” she whispers.
I frown. “Stop what?”
She steps closer.
“Lenora.”
“Tell me.”
My hand tightens around hers. “Stop.”
She doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
“Again.”
“Stop.”
“Mean it.”
I can’t.
Her eyes move to my mouth as mine drop to hers.
The bathroom suddenly feels too warm.
I can smell her shampoo. Feel the heat coming off her body. Her bare thigh brushes my leg. Barely but enough that every memory I have of her crashes into me at once.
Her mouth.
Her hands.
Her laughter against my skin.
The way she used to say my name when she wanted something. The way she’d curl against me after I pulled orgasm after orgasm from her body and pretend she wasn’t tired. The way she’d trace the bones beneath my skin. The way she’d whisper “Still you.”
Until one night I wasn’t.
I release her.
Hard.
She stumbles back.
“Don’t.”
Her expression hardens. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You were going to.”
“So were you.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“By acting like you can’t stand being near me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fucking stupid.”
“It’s worked for thirty-eight years.”
“I wasn’t here for thirty-eight years.”
“Exactly.”
The second I say it, I regret it.
She looks like I slapped her.
I close my eyes. “Lenora...”
“No. I get it.”
“You don’t.”
“You were better without me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No.”
“Then what did you mean?”
I don’t answer.
She laughs bitterly. “Right.”
She moves past me and I catch her arm.
Stupid. Fucking stupid.
She spins.
We’re inches apart.
“Let go.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “Pick a fucking lane, August.”
“I don’t want you thinking that.”
“Thinking what?”
“That I was better without you.”
“Weren’t you?”
“No.” The answer comes too fast. Too raw.
She stops fighting me.
I should lie. I have to lie. Instead…“I was alive.”
Her anger fades.
“But I wasn’t better.”
Silence.
My grip loosens but she doesn’t pull away.
“For thirty-eight years,” I say, “I didn’t hear your voice.”
Her eyes search mine.
“I didn’t know what you would look like next. Didn’t know where you’d be born. Didn’t know if it would take ten years or fifty or a fucking century.”
“August...”
“I told myself I wanted you to stay gone.” My thumb moves against her arm. Once. “I meant it.”
She flinches.
I hate myself.
“At least I thought I did.”
Her eyes glisten.
“But then I saw you.” I remember that afternoon. Rain hammering against the lobby windows. Me checking the mail. The front door opening. A woman stumbling inside fighting with a broken umbrella. Swearing. Soaked. Alive.
I knew before she looked at me. “I saw you standing downstairs three months ago, and I couldn’t fucking breathe.”
She doesn’t move. “You knew?”
“Immediately.”
“How?”
“I always know.”
“Did I look like her?”
“No.”
“Any of them?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“I don’t know.” My hand rises before I can stop it.
I touch her cheek and she closes her eyes leaning into it.
Fuck.
My palm fits against her face. It always does.
Different face. Same feeling.
“There you are,” I whisper.
Her eyes open.
Something changes. Not memory.
Emotion.
Her hand covers mine. “Is that what you thought?”
I nod.
“When you saw me?”
“Yes.”
“After thirty-eight years?”
“Thirty-eight years, four months, and six days.”
Her breath catches. “You counted?”
“Every fucking one.”
She kisses me. No warning. No hesitation.
Her mouth crashes into mine and every intelligent thought I’ve ever possessed leaves my body.
For one heartbeat, I resist.
Then thirty-eight years of loneliness break open.
I kiss her back.
Fuck Lenora.
My hand slides into her hair as her body presses against mine. The sound she makes against my mouth destroys what little restraint I had left.
I remember this. Not the exact kiss.
Her.
The way she kisses like she’s angry at the distance between us. Like she can eliminate it if she gets close enough.
I back her against the bathroom counter. Her fingers grip my shirt.
My mouth leaves hers long enough for both of us to breathe. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“We have to stop.”
“Then stop.”
I kiss her again.
She laughs against my mouth.
And there she is.
My Lenora.
Not 1897. Not 1944. Not any of them.
This one.
Now.
Her hands slide into my hair.
I press my forehead against hers. “Fuck.”
“What?” she pants.
“I missed you.”
My own words destroy me.
Lenora stills and I close my eyes.
Too much. I said too much.
“August.”
“Don’t.”
“You missed me?”
“No.”
A tiny laugh. “Liar.”
“Apparently not an excellent one.”
“Not with me.”
There it is again.
I open my eyes.
She’s looking at me differently. Softly. Dangerously. Her fingertips trace my jaw making me shiver.