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“You know.” She laughs quietly. “Not killing me.”
I can’t help but laugh with her. The comment slams into me, highlighting just how crazy this all is.
And yet we’re here, my Freya and me, despite everything.
We’re together, laughing, and close.
Parking down the road from her house, I scan the quiet street, some of the properties shining yellow lights onto the street.
“Freya,” I say, turning to her.
“Yeah?”
“You’re welcome.”
She smiles as I lean down for a kiss. It’s a miracle how we’re able to exist within the darkness without letting it pull us down.
As our lips meet, our mouths open, and our tongues hungrily search for each other – as the passion threatens to make me claim her here, I know we’re going to make it.
We have to.
She whimpers as my hand comes to rest on her leg.
Pausing the kiss, she whispers, “Shouldn’t we go inside?”
I sit back with an effort, balls bulging, manhood solid, my head swirling with all the things we could do instead.
But she’s right. Lives are at stake.
I reach for the door.
CHAPTERNINE
Freya
My lips are sore as we walk across the street, my mouth begging for another kiss.
Again, that out-of-place feeling touches me as though some force has plucked me from my regular existence and dropped me into somebody else’s life.
Every time I glance across at Felix – especially as I see the way his silver hair catches the moonlight – a warble moves through me. It shivers in my belly as though my core is yelling at me, telling me to forget all this madness and leap at him.
Makeour future happen now, and don’t think about the rest, the implications.
The reasons it can’t work.
“It’s a beautiful tattoo, by the way,” Felix says. “I had to study it closely to make sure you were the right one.”
The right onemeaning the one he was supposed to kill, without remorse, without guilt, just take me out.
Like in the car with Felix and me, I’m able to take his comment to one level while ignoring everything else that’s happening. It’s like my heart, soul, and need know these moments are important to us, even if we ought to be worried about the far bigger deal of not dying.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “I got it in memory of my dad. Not that I remember him, but….”
We pause at the edge of my yard. Looking at the house, I know Julie’s still up. The light to her bedroom – formerly the guest room – is on. The lamp in the living room is also turned on, so maybe mom’s home too.
“You don’t need to remember him to keep his memory alive,” he says.
I take his hand, not even planning to, just reach over and grab it firmly. He squeezes it in response, holding me with surprising gentleness…and yet with strength beneath it.
