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“You?”
The green in Byzantine’s eyes reflects the sun bouncing off the waves while he walks closer to me. A knot suddenly forms in my throat making it hard to swallow.
“No. I don’t fear death,” he states, his hand trailing up my arm, his fingers digging into my bicep as if fearing I’ll float away. “I’ve already died, remember?” His face is so serious like his eyes are seeking a path straight to my soul, his touch searing me into place. “I’ve seen what happens when we die. There’s nothing left to fear.”
“Wait,” I say incredulously, studying him now, searching his face for the answer to a question I haven’t even formulated yet. “You never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
My laugh is hollow as I continue, “Are you telling me you saw, like what? Heaven?” The question comes out more like a scoff as if I find this line of questioning ridiculous. But my drumming heart doesn’t seem to find it silly at all. A private part of me yearns to know the place where River exists now. Does she look like herself? Does she remember me?
Byzantine somehow feels me slipping into the quicksand of my thoughts, and pulls me into his arms, his hands flat against my spine holding me close to his chest. His nose trails up my neck, and I shiver under his touch. But it helps. I dig my toes further into the bottom of the ocean, reminding me where I am.
I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
Byzantine’s voice is low when he finally answers, “I’ve seen much more than just the afterlife.”
I know Byzantine’s words mean much more than what he’s letting on, but then his teeth catch my bottom lip and I can’t help but to melt into him, his mouth the ultimate distraction as my arms wrap around his neck.
His kiss deepens, his hand grasping the back of my neck to angle me better into an exploration of his mouth on mine. Yet again, this feels like much more than just a kiss and it’s dancing dangerously close to the first time his lips caught my own. It’s as if the fabric of reality can’t help but to unravel between us, melting from the heat of our embrace. Finally, I pull away and try to catch my breath, my chest rising up and down, cheeks flushed.
“You’re doing it again Byzantine,” I say sternly.
His kiss-swollen lips pull upwards. “Doing what?” he asks innocently.
“Distracting me,” I say, crossing my arms for extra effect.
“Is it working?”
“Yes. But that’s besides the point and you know it,” I say, jamming my index finger into his hard chest to cement my point. “What the hell did you mean by you’ve seen more than just the afterlife?”
Guilt flashes in his eyes but as always it’s gone before I can delve deeper.
“It’s complicated, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says, locking me out behind his hard, unreadable exterior. He pulls me into his arms again and whispers, “just let it go—please.”
There’s enough of a plea in his voice that it rattles me into complying. I follow him out of the water, convinced the amount of unspoken words we harbor between us is enough to drown us both.
Chapter 32
Byzantine
I’msittinginameeting with Connor and I should be listening but I’m not. We’re upstairs in his office, but luckily it’s not just me in here, and the attention is on one of our lackeys droning on about this week’s intel.
My mind couldn’t be further away from this place.
I fucked up.
I shouldn’t have said what I said. It slipped out, like my secrets are constantly near the surface waiting to be let out. Similar to when I so carelessly called her windflower. My words act quicker than the more rational part of my brain, as if my lips would rather listen to a much more ancient piece of me. The one who's known Sunny for what feels like forever.
I can’t help but to whisper secrets into the soft shell of her ear. My desire to have every piece of her—ownher like she already owns me is burning me from the inside out. It leads me to tell her things she’s not ready to hear.
Will she ever be ready?
What was the fucking point of dying if only to watch her slip through my fingers again? To stand stoic and listen to Sunny tell me she would rather be dead than here.
She might have worded it differently but I knew. I knowthat a part of her is far away from here. The scar on her wrist is a testament to those very desires. And once again I’m an onlooker to her pain. But at least this time,thisfucking time I am not the cause…yet.
The possessive part of me wants to lock her up somewhere and never let her out. Or at least strong-arm her into wanting to live. But I've been here before. She needs to save herself. She needs to figure out how to breathe without hurting. My fear of this pattern repeating in this lifetime strangles me, a tight grip around the scar on my neck. I feel powerless.
