Page 49 of Burned

The question is a blade.

I let it cut.

“If you do,” I say, “then I have failed to make something clear.”

Her breath clouds between us.

“What?”

I take her wrist and press her palm flat against my chest.

“This.”

My heart pounds beneath her hand.

Hard. Violent. Hers.

“It only beats like this for you.”

“Now…” Her eyes shine, and I hate every tear she does not shed. “But not then.”

“No.” My other hand slides to her jaw, tilting her face up to mine. “You will listen.”

Her breath catches.

“I loved her,” I say, because truth is the only thing sharp enough to cut through fear. “Once.

Before the fire. Before Carlos. Before I became whatever ruined thing dragged you into my life.”

Her lashes tremble.

“But you,” I say, lowering my mouth until it brushes hers, “are not once.”

Her fingers curl into my shirt.

“You are now. You are after. You are the woman who walked into the ashes and made me want to live in the ruin.”

A small sound leaves her.

I claim it with my mouth.

The kiss is not gentle.

Gentle wouldn’t show her. And apparently, I’ve failed her in that department. But I never fail to show her how obsessed I am with her.

How possessive I am over her.

And if I’m being honest with myself, I need to hold onto something real before I meet a ghost.

I kiss her like a vow with teeth. Like punishment. Like prayer. Her hands clutch at my shirt, then my shoulders, then the back of my neck, pulling me closer as if she has decided freezing is better than letting me go.

“Good girl.” My hand tightens at her waist. She gasps into my mouth. I break the kiss again to look at her. “Tell me you know who you belong to.”

Staring up at me, she swallows, stubborn even now. “I know who I love no matter who walks through that door. Do you?”

That face she’s making now, the way her pretty little chin juts out?—

It takes me right back. To that night. That moment.