Page 82 of Savage Heart

His jaw tightens. “You never deserved that.”

“I couldn’t have imagined it going the way it did back then—a world where you would look right through me didn’t seem possible.”

“I was wrong,” he says. “I was so wrong.”

He moves to sit on the coffee table, facing me.

“I punished you for surviving.”

“Mav—” My voice shakes.

He shakes his head hard. “No. Let me say it. Please.”

His hands come together, fingers twisting.

“I looked at you and saw the worst day of my life,” he says. “And instead of loving you through it, I tore you apart. I let everyone think you were a monster. I let you think you were.”

My heart aches so badly I have to press my hand against my chest.

“I hated you,” he says, and his voice splinters. “And God, Iris, I hated myself for still missing you.

“You lost everything,” he continues. “Lincoln. Me. Everyone who could’ve supported you through it. And I stood there acting like I was the only one who got hurt. And worse . . . we let you and Lincoln down by not getting to know and love your son. He didn’t get to know his family.”

“Linc became my sole reason for not telling anyone what happened that night. I did it because Lincoln asked me to, but by the time I had Linc, it was for him. I knew I’d have a chance to prove myself to him, a chance that his father would never have. It felt like the least I could do for Lincoln—to preserve his memory as the beautiful life it really was, not boiled down to his last hour on earth.”

He reaches for me, then hesitates, like he doesn’t deserve to touch me. His hands hover in the space between us.

“Please forgive me. I’m begging you,” he says. A tear runs down his face. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but please, please forgive me.”

I know deep down that I should protect what little scar tissue I’ve built.

But instead, I lean in.

“I don’t know how to forgive you,” I whisper. “Not all at once.”

His breath stutters. “I’ll take anything. A piece. A chance. A lifetime of trying.”

“I needed you,” I say. “I needed you so much.”

“I know.” His voice cracks. “And I wasn’t there. I let you down.”

My face crumbles, and a wrecked sob bursts out. “Yes, you did.”

He leans in, and I shove him back. My fists pummel his chest, and he lets me until I’m spent. Somehow his arms end up around me, holding me, and I cry tears that have been such a long time coming.

He whispers soothing words and says, “I’m so sorry,” over and over, holding me until long after my tears have dried.

I don’t know who moves first.

All I know is that his mouth finds mine.

It’s not gentle or careful. It’s raw and desperate and full of everything we haven’t said. I gasp, more from shock than anything, but I don’t pull away. My hands slide from his hair to his shoulders and back to his hair. I pull it, hard, wanting to make it sting.

He makes a sound against my mouth—low, wrecked—and the kiss deepens. It turns hungry, aching, like we’ve been starving.

Years of blame, grief, desire, bitterness, and regret crash together. My heart slams against my ribs, furious and alive, and for a split second I hate myself for how badly I want this.

Then I stop hating anything at all.