Page 93 of Bonetide

“What if I’d woken up and panicked? What if I’d called the police?”

He looks at me a long moment.

“Then I’d have stood at the window and waited for them.”

I exhale shakily.

“That isn’t comforting.”

“I’m not going to tell you a thing is something when it’s not.”

His voice is low and careful and doesn’t bend even when bending would be the more normal thing. He just hands me the truth and doesn’t care what I do with it.

He takes one step toward me and stops, a strange look coming over his eyes.

“I’m not going to manage staying away now, Iris. Not after last night. You should know that going in. I tried it for weeks across the bay, and I won’t manage it any longer. I’m telling you what I’m like so you can decide what you’re going to do about it.”

Once again, I can’t seem to find the words. I can’t even find the thoughts. The way he’s so easy and accepting of his many red flags—the fact that he dressed me and drove me home while I was sleeping, the fact that he’s saying he can’t stay away from me. And, of course, the numerous other red flags that have popped up since the first day I saw him. That damn dick of his waving around from across the bay should have been a red flag in itself.

And yet…

I like that he’s a walking red flag. You’d think after Ryan I would want someone safe; someone who didn’t carry any toxic traits. But the difference is, Ryan painted all his red flags green. He kept them hidden, making everyone believe he was this perfect husband, when, in reality, he was an asshole.

Alasdair lies to me too—I’m not stupid, I know he does. He’s evasive about half of everything, he won’t give me a straight answer about what he is, and I barely know the man. But there’s a difference, and it took me until now to put my finger on it. Ryan lied about who he was. Alasdair only lies about the facts. He’s never once pretended to be gentle when he wasn’t, never faked being safe, never dressed himself up as a good man—if anything he keeps warning me he’s the opposite. He hides what he is. He’s never hidden how he feels about me.

And god help me, after Ryan, that’s the part that counts. It probably shouldn’t, I mean, I know how reckless and dumb I’ve been and will continue to be (at least I’m self-aware about that) but, it’s true.

Besides, the man knew I loved coffee so much that he took me in the night and brought me here so I could have some when I woke up.

My god, he’s going to be the death of me, isn’t he?

I push off the doorframe.

I cross the kitchen, the bare floor cold under my feet, put my hand flat on his chest, and push him back against the wall by the window, my body suddenly seizing control from my mind and burying what few objections I had to this whole scenario.

His hand catches the small of my back through the shirt, his other hand sets the mug on the sill without looking, and his eyes are that vivid glacial blue, Alasdair blue, and he’s looking at me as if I’ve just done something he’s been holding his breath for.

“Foxglove.”

“Don’t be gentle,” I tell him.

“Aye,” he murmurs, the tip of his nose brushing against mine.

“Be the thing you are when you’re not being careful with me. Be whatever it is that you hold back. I know you hold back.”

He breathes in slowly, his chest moving under my palm. I feel the pause in him—the discipline he’s choosing. But I don’t want him to be disciplined, and I don’t want his patience right now.

I want the part of him that’s been waiting.

“Alasdair. Please.”

His hand comes up and he fists it in my hair at the back of my skull. He doesn’t pull. He just gathers it, the damp weight of it, and tightens, waiting to see if I’ll tell him to stop.

I don’t tell him to stop.

I want him to hold me harder.

“You ask for that again,” he warns, eyes flashing, “and you’ll have it.”