I swallow hard, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.I hurt him on purpose.The thought is a cold, hard stone in my gut.
I didn’t just leave. I took a wrecking ball to the life we were building because I was a coward.
I saw the future, saw the house and the kids and the forever, and I ran. I ran so far, and so fast, I convinced myself I was escaping him, when all along I was just running from myself.
“Billy…” I whisper.
I’m cut off by the shrill, insistent beep of the microwave. The sound is a jarring intrusion, a splash of cold reality on the heated moment.
He looks at me, and for a split second, his eyes are raw, an open wound of longing and pain. Then he blinks, and the shutters come down.
He turns away, using the sound as an excuse, a lifeline back to the safety of indifference. He opens the door, and the smell of fried chicken and warm potatoes fills the space, a comforting, domestic scent that feels at odds with the storm raging inside me.
I’m terrified. I saw that smile. A real smile. Not the smirk he uses to keep the world at bay, but the one that used to be just for me.
The one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
And I can’t… I can’t breathe around the realization that he’s still in there. The man I loved is still here, and I broke him.
I’m the reason for the pain I just saw in his eyes.
My feet move before my brain can catch up, one step, then another, carrying me across the kitchen floor. I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame, knowing I’m about to get burned but unable to stop myself.
He turns just as I reach him, the hot plate in his hands trapping him between me and the counter. He looks down.
The kitchen light catches the water droplets in his eyelashes. There’s a single trickle of rainwater sliding down his jaw, and I have an insane urge to lean in and lick it off. He’s so handsome it’s a physical ache.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” I whisper. The words feel inadequate, useless. How do you apologize for shattering someone’s soul?
“We don’t have to,” he says. His voice is strained, the words clipped. He’s not angry. He’s pleading. He’s begging me not to do this, not to open this door.
“I’m sorry, Billy.” I have to say it. I have to make him hear it. The guilt is a living thing inside me, a parasite that feeds on my silence.
“Don’t, Sedona.” The warning is clear, but I can’t stop. I’ve been silent for five years. I can’t be silent anymore.
“Billy, please…”
Something in him snaps. I see it in his eyes, a flash of white-hot heat. “Fuck it.”
The words are a curse, a surrender. He shoves the plate onto the counter. The clatter of ceramic on tile is a gunshot in the quiet room.
Then his hands are on me.
One hand cups the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my damp hair, holding me in place. The other arm bands around my waist, yanking me against him.
The impact is a shock. My body collides with his, all hard muscle and solid heat. I can smell him now, and it’s not just pine smoke and rain.
It’s the scent of his skin, a unique, masculine smell that I used to fall asleep to. It’s a scent I’ve tried to forget for five years.
Mine. The word is a pulse, a beat in my blood, a primal, undeniable claim. This is an Alpha. My Alpha.
“Don’t say my name like that, Sedona.” His voice is a raw, ragged thing, stripped of all pretense.
“Billy…” I whimper. My hands flatten against his chest, feeling the frantic, solid thump of his heart under my palms. It’s beating as fast as mine.
He traces my lower lip with his thumb. The callused pad is rough, a delicious friction that sends a jolt straight through me.
It’s a moment of hesitation, a final battle for control. Then his eyes darken, the last of his restraint crumbling to dust. He lowers his head and kisses me.
