Chapter 31
Thealina
Morning filters in slow and pale, the kind of light that blurs the line between sleep and waking.
For a moment there’s nothing but warmth, nothing but the steady rise and fall of someone else’s chest beneath my cheek, a palmed splayed against my lower back, the scent of orange and spice curling in the air.
It takes my mind longer than it should to catch up.
Longer still before the memory of last night crashes back into me.
Rafe.
Not our talk, or laughter, but the intimacy. The way he played my body and had me singing for him.
My body tenses. It wants me to pull away, to slide out from beneath his arm and gather the scattered pieces of myself before he notices they were ever exposed.
But he already has. He saw everything.
His hand flexes against my back, fingertips brushing the bare skin of my waist. The ache that rises in my chest isn’t the sharp, splintered thing I’m used to. It’s softer. A warmth that scares me more than pain ever did.
His face is tilted down toward me, eyes still closed. A lock of dark hair falls over his brow, and the line of his jaw is less severe in sleep. He looks younger like this, and I hate how handsome he is.
It’s dangerous, the way I want to stay rooted to his side. The beat of his heart hushes the voices in my head. No demands. No raised voices. No expectation beyond existing beside him.
A part of me wants to lean in, press my lips against that stupidly perfect jaw, and thank him for giving me a night that wasn’t about obligation. For being gentle and nurturing in a world that rarely is.
What did last night mean to him?
Was his touch purely for medicinal purposes. Or was it more?
It felt like more. The bulge in his undershorts said more. But men are unpredictable, so I’m left a little unsure of myself.
As if sensing me, his hand tightens around me. I glance up, and find him studying me, cataloguing every flicker of thought that crosses my face.
“You’re awake,” he rasps, sounding husky, sleep lacing his voice. “Any pain?”
If I said yes, would he touch me again. I think on that for a moment, biting my lip. I feel no pain, but I’d like to feel his fingers again.
“Lina?”
‘No. No pain.’
My nerves win.
His palm glides slowly, soothingly, up my bare back, and he hums, the sound vibrating through my chest.
“Good.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, his abs clenching beneath my palm with the movement. “Want me to draw you a bath?”
‘Gods, yes!’
I gasp, clasping a hand over my mouth. That thought came out at the speed of light.
He chuckles, his chest bouncing my head. I smile, shifting away, bringing the cover up to hide my breasts.
The absence of his warmth is immediate, but I take comfort watching him move about the room. Stoking the fire, filling the cauldrons with water, lighting the stove and filling the kettle. He lives so simply. It’s much more work yet somehow he seems so at peace.
The steam from the bathroom dances in the air, carrying the scents of citrus oil. It compels me. Rolls my eyes to the back of my skull.
“You bathe. I’ll make us food.” He’s always making me food.
‘No pubes in it this time.’
His laugh echoes, and his eyes meet mine with maddening tenderness. He stands close as I hover in the doorway to examine the filled bath and all the feminine products he left out for me, wanting to ask him to join me.
Also wanting to ask why he has all this.
I don’t, but he seems to sense this. His knuckles skim the back of my hand, the contact so light it might’ve been a mistake, but neither of us move away. Neither of us pull back from the lightning shocks zapping our flesh with each touch, each look. With each stolen moment.
After my heart thumps a rapid beat, I clear my throat, slipping into the bath and allow the heat to wrap around me, easing all the aches in my limbs, and for the first time in a long while, the sharp edge of survival dulls.