Page 56 of Wraith

My hands are shaking.

I press them against the cheap motel bedspread and try to steady myself, try to think clearly, try to remember all the reasons I should be angry about this instead of feeling this dangerous warmth spreading through my chest.

He hurt me.

He controlled every aspect of my life, made me doubt myself, made me small and scared and dependent.

He is the reason I wake up sometimes with my heart racing and my hands curled into fists, ready to fight.

But he also came back to warn me. Made me breakfast. Let me cuff him so I could sleep. Fought for me. Trusted me to drive, to decide, to lead.

And now he’s sitting here with bruises on his face, telling me he respects me.

With roses.

Cheap, simple roses that probably cost ten dollars from the pharmacy down the street.

I look at him and I see something I never saw before. Not the cold, controlled Wraith. Not the manipulative asshole who used love like a weapon. Just... Dylan. A man who’s trying. A man who bought me roses because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The impulse hits me before I can stop it.

I reach up and grab the front of his shirt.

Pull him toward me.

His eyes go wide with surprise, but he doesn’t resist, just lets me guide him down, and then my lips are on his.

The kiss is soft at first. Tentative. Testing. His mouth is warm, and I press deeper, my hand fisting in his shirt, my other hand coming up to cup the back of his neck.

He makes a sound low in his throat. His hand comes up to my face, fingers gentle against my jaw, and the kiss deepens, becomes something more, something that has heat behind it and need and all the complicated feelings I’ve been trying not to have.

When I pull back, we’re both breathing hard.

“Thank you,” I say.

His eyes search mine. Looking for something. Maybe finding it.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and then he’s kissing me back.

This kiss is different. Harder. More certain. His hand slides into my hair and angles my head, and his mouth moves against mine with a hunger that makes my stomach flip. I kiss him back just as hard, my fingers digging into his shoulders, careful of his injured side but not careful enough to stop.

Heat floods through me.

Heat that has nothing to do with the stuffy motel room or the sun beating down on the building outside. This is visceral. Heat that starts low in my belly and spreads outward until my skin feels too tight and my thoughts scatter like leaves in wind.

I break the kiss just long enough to breathe, to look at him, to ask the question that’s suddenly urgent and necessary and terrifying.

“Are we really doing this?”

His gray eyes are dark now. Pupils blown wide. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and his hand is still in my hair, and he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

“What does the New June want to do?”

The answer is so clear it almost makes me laugh.

“This.”

I kiss him again, and this time there’s no hesitation, no testing, no holding back. I kiss him like I mean it, like I want it, like maybe this is exactly what I’ve needed all along, even though I couldn’t admit it until right now.