Feversong

We’d almost been there once.

Until I’d run.

My eyes widened. I’d always thought if either one of us might withdraw from our relationship, it would certainly be him, not me.

But I was the one who’d run.

“Like a world class athlete,” he agreed, dark eyes glittering. “Fast as fuck and not about to stop for anything until you’d crossed the finish line.”

I caught my breath. “Why did you stay?” It would have been easier for him to just leave. A lot of men would have. I’d seriously vacated. Retreated and left him with bad moods and sex, and not much more.

“I understood.”

“What did you understand?” I said, because I sure as hell didn’t. Why had I run, knowing I was about to face another battle that was going to be even harder? A smart woman would have let Barrons in more, leaned on him, cultivated his exceptional strengths and extraordinary powers. But no, I’d shut him out. Redefined our relationship completely, lessening it. And he’d let me. Never said a word about it. Just stayed in the capacity I’d been willing to accept.

“It has nothing to do with intelligence or lack thereof. We’re alike, you and I.”

I blinked. Jericho Barrons had just put us in the same category.

“Alpha to the core. Proud. Independent. We’re private and pissy about our battles, especially the internal ones. We don’t want anyone else in the middle of how messy we think we might get, nor do we want to inadvertently hurt someone. I’d have left you completely until I’d seen it through. At least you stayed in my bed. Some of the time.”

I bristled. “If you ever even think of leaving me to—”

“I don’t fight internal battles anymore.” He was silent a moment then added, “Nor will you. Not even about Jo and the others. Yes, I know you know about them.”

I didn’t bother asking how he knew. “How do you figure?” I was pretty sure I still had a hellish battle to wage with myself.

“Because now you understand there are things we do in our lives for which there is—and will never be—any forgiveness. No matter how many people around you offer it. What you’ve done is irrevocable and you’ll find no absolution.”

“Gee, thanks for making me feel so much better, Barrons,” I said, stung.

“You never make peace with some things. But, like an oyster, chafed by a grain of sand you can’t dislodge, eventually you polish it into something of value.”

“How could my murder of Jo and the others ever possibly become something of value?”

“It’s not the action that becomes the thing of value. It’s how you feel about the action that does. You find yourself doing something for another person you never would have done before. You pay it forward. It takes time. Relax. Live. Keep your eyes open. See what comes.”

Relax. Live. Keep your eyes open. See what comes. I smiled faintly. That was all any of us could do on a given day.

I locked gazes with him. You’re my sun—

Hush. You think I don’t know that? I have a bone to pick with you, Ms. Lane.

I arched a brow. Uh-oh. I was Ms. Lane. That was Barrons: the man of few words could get downright loquacious with his criticism. “What?” There was a note of truculence in my voice, but I’d had a rough twenty-four hours and I was tired.

There was a moment back there in the White Mansion. You didn’t move. I wouldn’t have minded if you had.

He opened his arms.

Truculence dissipated like a bubble bursting. When I bounded over the couch, sped across the bookstore, and flung myself into them, he caught me up and swung me around and I threw my head back, laughing just like a heroine in one of those romantic movies.

“Sun, moon, and stars,” he growled against my ear.

I punched him in the shoulder. “Hush. You think I don’t know that?”

Then his mouth was on mine and we were on the floor, ushering in the night in time-honored fashion.

By the crimson and silvery light of the moon shafting in the front windows of my bookstore, on a hard floor that felt soft as clouds, I made love to Jericho Barrons. Took my time, slow, lingering, and tender. Poured into my hands every ounce of reverence I felt for this man who understood me like no other, saw straight to my tarnished soul and liked every bit of it, waited patiently while I did dickhead things until I found my way through them, never changed, never stopped being beastly but was capable of enormous loyalty and great tenderness. This lion that I’d sauntered up to wearing my flashy peacock feathers hadn’t snapped the head off my skinny, brilliantly colored neck, he’d only licked me and waited for me to grow claws.

I had neither flashy feathers nor claws now. I’d become yet another thing.

A steel fist inside a velvet glove.

Strong enough that I was no longer afraid to be gentle. Powerful enough that I could be vulnerable. Scarred enough that I could understand and tread lightly around the deepest scars of others.

Then Barrons’s steel was inside my velvet glove and I thought no more.

Later, when I lay stretched on top of his big hard body, I raised my head and looked into his eyes. “Did you see me when I was the Book?”

Yes, his dark gaze said.

I didn’t want to know, yet I needed to know. There was a new part of me that never wanted to hide from anything again. It demanded all truth all the time. If I’d done something, I wanted to know every detail, own it completely and deal with it. I’d learned that not knowing is so much harder than knowing, no matter how bad the truth is. Whether it’s worse or not, the unknown always looms larger and more terrifying because the doubt it creates undermines our ability to move forward. “Did you see me kill Jo?”