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What. The. Fuck.
I blink at her, and withdraw my hand from under her dress. It’s clenching into a fist, I note distantly, and force myself to relax it.
“Why?” I clear my throat. “Why are you asking me this?”
She’s looking at me, her big eyes vulnerable. “I talked to Storm and Rook. About your grandfather. I wanted to understand you. Understand why you went on that first suicide mission. Why you were going to go again, before I left.”
I nod. I shouldn’t be angry. She did it because she cares for me. I know that now. And thank God, I’ve gotten a better hold on my tongue nowadays, not blurting out whatever nasty doubt and defensive thought comes to my mind.
“You could have asked me,” I say, keeping my voice quiet, and meet her gaze. “I’d have told you.”
“I know.” She reaches for my hand and our fingers tangle together. “I know that now. Which is why I’m asking you about this, and not them.”
Relieved, I turn her hand over, study it. So small against mine. So graceful and smooth.
“It never was a viral infection that took part of my hearing away. That was what I told the guys when they asked about it. What I told anyone who knew. Even my parents.” I lift her hand to my lips and kiss it. “Remember I told you my grandfather threw me against the wall a few times when I first moved in with him? That was the reason. One of the hits damaged my inner ear.”
“Oh God.” She leans closer, pulls her hand free to cup my cheek. Tears are glittering in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. He was a bastard.”
I frown. Was he? “I never told anyone, because he was the only adult who really saw me as a person. He saw me and recruited me. Gave me a purpose. Told me what was important. What I was supposed to do.”
“Do you still believe that?”
Fuck, this is hard to say, because my grandfather was my world until he died. He may have knocked me around, but he also raised me. Set me straight. Gave me discipline and his twisted sort of love, which was much more than anything my parents ever had.
But I can finally admit what he did, say it out loud. The roses inked into my chest burn with phantom pain as my secrets come to light.
“My grandfather… he made me believe I wasn’t meant to have a life. He was rattled by what he guessed my parents were doing, I guess. He hammered it into me, into my head…” I laugh, the irony too great. “Yeah, he actually hammered all this into my head. He punched and shoved and slammed me into the walls, and every time he said he was training me to be a soldier for the world. He made me believe it was on me to make things right. Only, he never taught me that I wasn’t alone with this burden. That I’m not the only one responsible. Or that I have an even bigger responsibility—to my family. To those I love. That one day I’d fall in love. That I’d find someone like you, someone who matters to me more than the world.”
“Hawk…” She’s stroking my cheek, my beard, running her fingers through it.
“I’m not a hero,” I tell her, the admission painful. “I’ve tried to be.” I rub the words inked on my forearms over the soft cloth of my shirt. “I had these tats done after he died.”
“What do they mean?”
“Vivo Ut Serviam. I live to serve. And Ad Serviam Veritatem. In the service of the truth. I believed that was my purpose in life. The reason I was born. But now… I dunno anymore. Or rather, I do. I’ve done my part. I thought I had nothing to live for. But I do. I do have something—someone to live for. I have you. Let Rook ask his friends for help. I’m done.”
She leans in to kiss me, and I place my hand behind her head and draw her to me. My other hand is over her tits, over her hip, and she’s frantically fumbling with my zipper, the leather squeaking underneath us, and the windows fogging up.
I guess we’re gonna try a different position in the back of the limo first.
I tug her panties to the side, and she guides my cock inside her, her mouth never leaving mine. I suck on her tongue, and she nips at my lips and fuck, I’m coming apart so fast I don’t know what hit me.
Layla. Riding my cock, her hair tickling my face, her eyes closed, her hands tangling at the back of my neck, rising and falling on me like a naked flame.
Burning away the past. Burning my soul. Branding me as hers.
“Marry me, Layla,” I whisper, like I’ve done every day for the past four months. She always says no. “Marry me.”
“Yes.” She laughs, and it takes me a long moment to realize this time she didn’t refuse. This time she accepted, and then she’s kissing me, and tears are slipping down her face. “Yes.”
“God, I love you,” I breathe, closing my eyes, and I know I’ll love her to the end of time.
