My Maddie (Hades Hangmen #8) - Tillie Cole Page 0,83

man who could not maintain eye contact, with me, he devoured my gaze. It was confirmation of his love. He did not know how to directly express his love, but it was the little things he did that showed me, beyond measure, how I belonged in his heart—the way he kissed me, soft and searching, a far cry from his formidable size and what most people saw. How he held me when we slept. How he always held my hand. And how he watched me, always watching me. Not with malice or dark intent, but as though he could not fathom how we had found one another, and he dared not look away for fear it was an apparition that might dissipate and transform into a dream.

I knew this because I felt it too.

“Why do you cut yourself?” I traced the outline of some of his old scars.

“To make the flames go away.”

“Why do the flames come?” I asked gently. His eyebrows pulled down, showing his confusion. I knew he could not reason the significance of this question. Edging closer, so close that I could feel the hairs of his beard caress the back of my hand, I asked, “Where is the pain? Where does it start? When the flames come, where do they begin?”

Flame looked as though I had asked him an impossible question to answer. I knew, to him, I probably had. I ran my fingertips over his arms, gently so as to not hurt his new wounds. Flame’s breathing increased and his nostrils flared. His lips trembled as if my whispered touch was his manna from heaven. “Where, baby?”

Moving his free hand from beside him, Flame took my hand with a timidity and gentleness that was almost my undoing. His hand trembled as he guided my hand over his arms. He moved so slowly, frown lines forming on his forehead. I wondered if he worried the flames would burn me or affect me somehow. Or maybe he was cherishing my touch, the touch of his wife denied for so long to him. I became breathless as his hand guided mine across his shoulders and down the center of his chest. Then our hands stopped. They stopped, clutching over his heart.

“There,” he answered, gripping my hand tightly, like he feared I would vanish if he did not. He was answering my question about the flames. They started in his heart. I closed my eyes and tried to not break. His heart. Flame struggled to express his emotions and feelings, struggled to understand them like most people could. But the flames came from his heart. Bending down, I met his eyes. Painstakingly slowly, I lowered my head and moved our joined hands aside. Flame became breathless as he watched my lips meet the skin of his chest. His chest raised and fell at the contact. And then I pressed a single butterfly kiss over his heart, over the place that both begat and imprisoned his pain.

Flame groaned, as though the action pained him. I lifted my head, not wishing to cause him any distress. Tears tumbled down his cheeks like twin waterfalls of agony. “Flame,” I whispered, feeling immediately guilty for upsetting him. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

Flame did not seem to hear my apology. Pushing his hand against my cheek, his fingers wrapped in my long hair. My eyelids fluttered shut at the movement of his rough palm against my skin. When I opened my eyes, his gaze was searching mine. “You could burn,” he stated, his voice gaining strength—graveled tone replacing a whisper.

“Burn?” I sought clarification, leaning further into his touch, unwilling to lose the connection I so badly craved.

Flame’s attention was pulled to the bedroom door. I followed his gaze to the flames of the fire in our living room. His eyes were so dark I could see orange and yellow flames dancing in his enraptured stare. Flame’s hand trembled on my cheek. “He told me I was in the fire.” As he spoke, Flame’s voice lost its recently gained strength. The ‘he’ was his father, I knew this. He was the man responsible for all this pain. Flame’s voice always changed in tone when he talked about his poppa. It lost its gravel tone and adopted that of the little boy begging for the love of his father. It was always heart breaking.

Turning my head, I kissed Flame’s palm, a kiss to give him strength. Flame’s breath hitched, but he continued. His eyes