Page 30 of Empire
Alive in that dangerous, wounded way only he manages with me.
“Close the door,” he says.
I do, then I stand there in the thick heat, staring at him like I’ve forgotten how fucking language works.
Salvatore reaches up and pushes wet hair back from his face. “You’re going to keep looking at me like that all night?”
I strip without taking my eyes off him, fingers clumsy for once as I yank at buttons, shove my trousers down, and kick everything aside.
By the time I step in, my pulse is hammering so hard it feels adolescent. Absurd. I haven’t felt adolescent about anything in years. But this—finding him here, in my fucking bathroom, after all the ways this could’ve gone wrong—does something reckless to me.
The water is hot enough to sting, but I barely feel it.
His face tilts up to mine, mine probably giving away more than I want because the look in his eyes changes. Softens. Not by much; Salvatore doesn’t soften by much for anyone, but enough.
Then I take his face in both hands and kiss him.
It’s not graceful; nothing with us ever is. It’s relief and disbelief and need and the kind of hunger that starts in panic before it settles into anything recognizable. He kisses me back instantly, hard enough to bruise, and every horrible thing about tonight gets washed out of me under the heat and the taste of him.
I back him into the tile, water sliding between us, and he makes a sound against my mouth that goes straight to my spine.
When I finally pull back enough to breathe, my forehead drops to his.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.
He laughs once, breathless and bitter. “Lovely to see you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His hands flatten against my ribs, then climb slowly up my sides as if he’s checking I’m real too. Maybe he is.
I pull back enough to look at him properly. “Salvatore.”
His jaw tightens. “My father knows.”
Everything in me goes still, and all I can do is stare at him.
Knows.Not suspects, or even watches.Knows.
“What?” I say quietly.
He looks away for half a beat, the first crack I’ve seen in him tonight. “He had photographs of us.”
Cold spreads through me so fast it’s almost clean. My hands fall from his face to his shoulders, gripping without meaning to.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
His tone kills any remaining hope that this is manageable in the ordinary ways.
“Did he touch you?” I ask, and my voice comes out lower than I intend. The question surprises him; I can tell.
His expression changes, some flash of surprise or maybe disbelief breaking through the strain for a second. “What?”
“Your father.” I say, my hand already moving to his side before he can stop me, fingers grazing the bruise at his ribs. He hisses softly. “Did he do this?”
