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“Are we fighting about this because it’s against the law, or because you’re afraid I’ll scrape my knee?”
“Why can’t it be both?” he demands. “Why can’t I stand up and say what you’re doing is wrong,andalso scares the shit out of me? Why can’t the thought of you approaching killers on your own in the middle of the fucking night terrify me? Why,” he shakes me a little as his frustration pulses to the surface, “am I to be vilified for caring about you?”
“No one is vilifying you!” I throw his hand off and walk toward the bathroom. Tequila makes my blood warm and my stomach jump, and anger makes me too hot. Too crushed by my coat and tight clothes. “Literally no one is vilifying you, Archer. You’re making unilateral decisions about this relationship you claim we have, and when I try to get a word in edge-wise, you stomp on any autonomous thought I might have and jump back to how I’m a monster.”
I set my empty glass on the outdated sink, then shed my coat and unbutton my blouse. Finally, I glance back at the man whose eyes drop to my fingers. “You got mad at me because of who I am, because of who I was before we met, because I’m the person I warned you about. You got mad!”
I push my top off and stand in front of him in pants and a bra. “You decided you didn’t like what I do, so then you ignored me for a week. You broke your silenceonlywhen you got wind that another man might have called me on the phone. And still, you claim innocence in the breakdown of the relationship I never wanted in the first frickin’ place!”
Dropping my hands to the button of my pants, I unsnap them and push the zipper down. “You have your own preconceived ideas of what you want me to be. A box you want me to fit into, but Idon’tfit, Archer.”
I shove my pants down my thighs and, in my half-intoxicated state, I don’t see the way his burning gaze changes. How anger turns to hunger, and rage turns to lust. How his hands flex and ripple, and his jaw clenches beneath the five o’clock shadow he permanently wears.
“I won’t fit into any box you select for me, no matter the size or shape. So if that’s what you need, then it’s probably time you look elsewhere.” I kick my pants off and take my first full breath since shedding my coat. “Go home with someone else. Love someone else, because we cannot be compatible for as long as you want me to lose myself so we can both be into you.”
He steps forward on to the tile, one foot. Then two. His stare follows my hands that twist to turn on the shower, then his fingers go to the button of his jeans. One fast snap, then quick movements as he pushes his jacket back.
“I never want you to be anyone except you.” He drops his jacket to the floor so it mingles with the clothes I left behind. Then he kicks his boots off. “I love you for who you are.”
“But you don’t.” Surprising me, tears rush to burn the backs of my eyes. “You want me to be me, but with a few small tweaks to please you.”
“I want you to be you, but a you who doesn’t kill people.”
“Exactly what I just said!” Shaking my head, I step under the shower and tilt my face back so the boiling spray hits my chest and calms me the way it has since my very first memories. “You want me to change who I am.”
“It’s unbelievable that me asking you not to kill people is such an outlandish request.” Somehow having shed all his clothes, Archer steps into the shower behind me and presses the back of my head to rest against his chest. His broad hands splay across my hips, his thumbs massaging the small of my back while his fingertips circle around to my front. “I’m struggling to come to terms with the fact that what I’m asking is so out of the question.”
I close my eyes and relax back in his arms.
Maybe this is a drunk hallucination. Maybe I’m sitting on my couch with Aubree, eating Chinese and drinking tequila shots every time a guy onLove Paradisemakes his abs bounce. Maybe none of this is real, and I’m so broken in my heartache, I’m making things up in my mind.
But for a minute, for as long as it takes the tears to stop coming, I allow his hands to slide on my skin.
“I’m not going to stop, Archer. Because every time someone is hurt by one of these re-offenders who evaded the system, I’m gonna see their blood onmyhands. It’s not entirely rational, and I know it’s not my fault. But I have the ability to make change. I can save them. And you…” I draw a deep breath and hope the sound of the shower masks the hitch. “You can’t accept me for who I am. We’re both hurting, because we both want this to work but our differences mean we’re impossible.”
“You could let the system do its job.”
“I do!” Shoving off him, since his words shatter both my fantasy and my relaxation, I spin in the shower and gasp when the water slams the top of my head and dribbles into my eyes. “I don’t go out cherry-picking people I think might commit a crime in the future, Archer. These people I hunt, these men, have taken lives. So many of them. They’ve been pulled in and out of court. In and out of prison. But they’restillkilling, and they’renotsorry for it.”
“Minka—”
“You made a promise!” Tears burst free and join the torrent of water on my cheeks. “You promised you would love me enough, no matter what. You said I could love you too, because you would catch me. But the first time you’re presented with a reason to hold out your hands, you don’t just drop me… You toss me away!”
“I can’t—”
“You threw me away!”
“I didn’t let you out of my fucking sight!” He charges forward and pushes me back until I hit the shower wall and the water cascades over his shoulders. Then he slams his lips to mine and swallows down the cry of heartache that rushes along my throat. “I didn’t walk away. I took space so I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You discarded me.”
I’m still not entirely sure this isn’t a drunken dream, so I reach down between us and wrap my hand around Archer’s pulsing cock. He’s ready for me, even in anger, even in a fight. And I’m desperate for him after a week of silence.
Lining him up at my opening and pressing my lips to his once more, I groan when he slides in, whimpering when he thrusts as far as he can reach and his breath scorches down my throat.
I don’t have to ask him to continue. I don’t have to ask him to go harder or faster or slower or sweeter. Because we fit. From the moment we met, we’ve fit. Which means his body and mine communicate in ways I’ll never truly understand.
Archer’s hands, so strong and powerful in any other facet of life, gentle when they hold me. His instincts, when he’s so used to being rough, ensure he’s tender enough for me. Because my hemophilia means his touch could so easily turn to a bruise. His fury could easily spell the end of my life.
