Page 113 of The Widow and the Wanted

Her eyes glisten. “You did more than try.”

The shame of it burns, but I do not look away. I have looked away too often. Men like my father build whole lives out of looking away from the wound they have made. By convincing himself every injury is justified, no matter how heartless.

“I am sorry,” I whisper. Then I kiss her shoulder.

Her eyes close.

I linger only a moment before lifting my head again, because desire is the least trustworthy part of contrition, and I will not let it speak louder than remorse.

“You are not a creature to be managed,” I say, breath against her neck. “Not by me. Or any man. You are a person entirely unto yourself. And if I am fortunate enough to stand beside you, then beside is where I belong.”

In the mirror, her gaze finds mine once more. I stop there, because the rest of it has no proper language. Lula turns slowly, the lace of her chemise brushing against the rough linen of my robe. She looks up at me, no paint on her face now, no borrowed gown, only those eyes that have already undone more of me than any sign or symbol ever could.

“Good. Because I will not be managed.” Her hand rises to my chest, resting there over my heart. Not pushing me away. Not pulling me closer.

Behind us, Boone lets out a quiet breath. “For what it’s worth, I kinda liked that you were wrong and I got to be in the right for once.”

Lula laughs then, sudden and honest.

I do too.

The sound loosens the argument’s grip over the room.

For a moment, all of it falls away—the men hunting us, the curse, the dead scientists, the false maps, and rich men twisting the law to suit themselves.

For a moment, there is only Lula’s hand against my chest, Boone’s fond silence behind us, and my own reflection looking back at me.

Chapter 30

Okee

Lula’s hand slides down my chest, her fingers finding the loosened edge of my robe. They drift lower, down my stomach, hip, until her hand closes around my cock. Her thumb drags slowly along the underside of the velvet head, coaxing blood and heat and the last useful part of my mind abandons me.

She turns and peeks over her shoulder at Boone. Then her hand leaves me and reaches for him.

“Come here,” she says.

Boone’s face changes as he comes to her slowly.

That’s when the truth of us becomes clear. The answer to the question Boone asked aloud: whether we were brave enough to trust what had brought her here.

Lula touches his cheek with one hand and places the other against my heart.

“Both of you,” she says, voice rougher now. “No more deciding what I can bear.”

“No more,” I agree.

Boone swallows. “No, ma’am.”

Her mouth curves. “Good.”

I touch her carefully at first, still chastened by my own confession. But Lula is not careful. She pulls me closer with a little sound of frustration, as if even now I am thinking too much.

Perhaps I am.

But when her mouth opens beneath mine, when Boone presses against her back and drops a reverent kiss to the curve of her neck, thoughts begin to loosen their grip.

There is only her hand in my hair.