Page 307 of These Tears

His mouth lifts a fraction. ‘“In revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.”’

I blink at him in an attempt to prevent my blood from boiling straight out of my ears.

‘Nietzsche was a miserable little moustache attached to an even more miserable opinion, and if you intend to quote him every time we establish a—’

His arm hooks around my waist. The rest of the sentence dissolves in his mouth.

The first impact of his kiss is hard enough to splinter our breaths.

He takes, and takes, then slows – as though some last wounded part of him still expects me to pull away. I rise into him until the hesitation breaks and he consumes what remains between us.

The first time I ever kissed him, it had been between concrete walls and steel bars. The first time he claimed a kiss from me without using it as a threat, the scent of snow and firewood clung to us.

Now I drown in him. In the scent of sun-warmed cotton, pine and the everlasting bite of winter that lives in his skin.

Separating from him feels like parting from a piece of my soul.

I look up into his eyes, the black lashes stubbornly curling to conceal the gleam in the ice that promises absolutely nothing good.

‘The hotel’s beyond booked and Brute hates the fluffy carpet there,’ I murmur, letting my heart prepare for the next beat and the words that follow. ‘I’ve never taken a boy home before, you know.’

‘Mm…’ he rumbles. ‘I’m more of a scruffy bear, anyway.’

To punctuate it, he taps the top of my hip where his brand lives.

The smile that takes over my lips is brief. And my bear catches on. Both his arms slither around my waist, the plastic bag hanging behind me, Mary grazing my spine. He pulls me closer.

And it feels like home.

‘We still have a long way to go,’ I tell him. His gaze remains on mine. ‘Nothing can excuse the things you did. I did. We did—’

‘What things?’ He tilts his head sideways, a twitch of his mouth announcing the mischief before it fully blooms in his eyes.

I cock a brow at him. ‘You know what things.’

‘The Nielsens’ shower?’ he purrs.

‘Elias…’ I push softly against his chest, but he holds me firmly. ‘Focus.’

‘I’m focusing, just not on the things you want me to focus on. You know…’ He shakes his head as he looks left, then right and finally dips his mouth closer to mine. ‘I think you get grumpy when you’re hungry. Perhaps some jam is in order?’

My mouth parts with disbelief as I look past him at the two guards stationed by the entrance. Heat scorches my face.

I seize him by the front of his collar and drag him towards the Ford before we educate the uniforms further on the possible uses of preserves.

An unguarded laugh spills from him. It follows me around the bonnet until he dips into the passenger seat.

Behind us, the release gate groans shut, the metal screeching its final goodbye to the ghosts of his past.

And to some extent, my own too.

53

Three weeks later, Anna walks into the kitchen and stands beside me as she begins loading plates into the dishwasher, pretending she is not about to launch a small interrogation.

She has been circling the subject since the day Elias and I arrived.

The woman has survived enough badly concealed lies to recognise when one is sitting at the table with her, but she also knows what it costs to force open a door someone is holding shut.