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He scoffs, popping out his raspberry sucker. “Doubtful, but be more specific.”
My fingers rake through his thick black hair, nudging some fallen strands off his forehead. “Do you think he was right when he said this life was full of suffering?”
His arms cinch around me possessively on a jagged breath. “I won’t let anything happen to you or this baby if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No.” My eyes peruse the royal-blue star above, speckled with glittery-white pinpricks. “I’m not scared, just wondering how on point it was.”
Suffering is such a palpable sentiment. Is that what’s in store, no matter how hard we try?
Wells rasps in an easygoing tenor, obviously attempting to allaymy concerns. “I’m sure we’ll have our share of troubling times, but doesn’t everyone?”
I hum, cognizant of the truth in that statement—all my guys endured unfathomable loss before this life. “I suppose. What about … do you think it will ever get easier?” I’m not sure what I’m asking—whether it be the PTSD, the grief, my work with KORT, or facing the fact that death is always knocking. Bringing a child into any of it is daunting.
My birth mother’s decision and my father’s sentiment from the letter he wrote me make perfect sense even though I wouldn’t leave this all behind.
Sometimes, running is the bravest thing in this world.
Wells grips my chin, so I look at him instead of the sky. “I think you were built for ironclad trials, Ives. Designed for the fire. It’s in your makeup. We have that in common, so easy won’t ever define our life together. No path we took would have.”
“You think I’m dark?” I ask, wondering if that’s what he means by being made for fire. “Is that another reason you call me a storm?”
“Not dark, baby.” His lips break into a wolfish grin, aglow by the explosive glitter falling through the night. “Blustery with the most shockingly beautiful light. Like those booming fireworks. So much oomph and fight.”
Fight.I am always fighting him, which must be draining for someone who’s used to commanding.
“I’m sorry. You’ve been on the receiving end of that a lot.” My arm drapes across my middle with a creeping insecurity. “Will you ever tire of it?”
“Ivanna,” he growls, eyes fierce. “What do I always tell you?”
I groan, evidently not relinquishing that fight anytime soon. “Not to apologize, which, for the record, will be aterriblelesson to pass on to our child, so you need to come up with something else.”
“Noted.” He chuckles, offering me a suggestive lick of his Tootsie Pop. “Don’t apologize for being you though. You’reeverything I ever wanted. Everything I never believed I’d have. Loving you, having you in my arms, makes me feel invincible.”
“Invincible?” That word intrigues me because he’s never voiced it before.
My attention floats over the celebratory explosions, the idle chatter surrounding us, and back to this gorgeous, extraordinary man who has my whole heart.Mine.
He wraps up the candy, setting it on the arm of our chair, and cradles my face with the expression that always stills me, seeping into my veins and cells and marrow. The one that assures me this is an epic love, far surpassing my comprehension or insecurities or penchant for fiery resistance. His lips press to mine for a pillowy, sugar-coated union that steals my breath before his emeralds brighten, more dazzling than the glistering sky.
“I never wanted a doe, baby. Anyone can command the weak or steer the docile. It takes a god to conquer the storm.”
THE END
