The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,49

his head to the side to look at her. “I think you’re right—”

She kissed him, her soft lips brushing his.

Inching back, she whispered, “You don’t have to say it.”

“What?”

“You owe me nothin’ ’cept this job. And I don’t need nothin’ from you other than it.”

He grunted as he lifted his arm so he could run a fingertip over her jaw and down onto her throat. He found that he was glad things were dark.

“I don’t have anything to give anyone.” Edward took her callused hand and put it on the center of his chest. “And I am cold.”

“I know. And I know lots else ’bout you. I’ve worked ’round animals all my life. I don’t expect any horse to be more or less than they are. And there’s no reason for people to be any different than they are, either.”

It was the strangest thing. Ever since he had been kidnapped out of that hotel in South America, he had been tight all over his body. First out of terror. Later, from the pain as the torture and starvation had ground him down. And then, after the rescue, his body hadn’t functioned well on so many levels—and there had also come the fight to keep his mind from cannibalizing itself.

But now, in this quiet darkness, he felt a vital loosening.

“I can feel you staring at me,” he said softly.

“That’s because I am. And it’s okay. Like I said, you don’t owe me a thing. I don’t expect nothin’ from you.”

For some reason, he thought of Moe Brown’s son, Joey. Handsome, strapping kid, just her age. Great around the horses, as good natured as they came, and no dummy.

She needed to be spending her nighttime hours with somebody like that.

“So why are you doing this?” he murmured.

“That’s my decision, ain’t it. My choice that I don’t need to explain to nobody, includin’ you.”

Her calm, forthright declaration, coupled with the conception that he was accepted just exactly as he was … furthered the strange and miraculous uncoiling in him.

And the longer he lay next to Shelby, the more his body eased. Or perhaps it was his soul. But then Shelby was the only person who didn’t compare him to who he had been. She didn’t have any past with him to mourn. She wasn’t looking for him to triumph over his tragedy, to rejoin the BBC, to helm his family.

He was a horse recovering from an injury, out to pasture, exposed to the elements … that she was prepared to feed and care for. Probably because that was the only thing she knew to do when confronted with suffering.

The exhale he released took years off of him. In fact, he had been unaware of the weight he was carrying inside his heart. Or the resentment he had against everybody that had been in his old life. In fact … the truth was, he hated them all, hated every one of them who stared at him with pitying eyes and shock and sadness. He wanted to scream at them that he hadn’t volunteered for what had happened to him, or what he looked like, or where he had ended up—and that his tragedy was none of their fucking business.

They thought it was upsetting laying their eyes on him? Screw that. He’d had to live through and with it all.

And yes, he even resented Sutton even though she was no more at fault than any of the rest of them.

Shelby, though … Shelby was free of all that. She was clean compared to their contamination. She was fresh air in a garbage dump. She was a vista in what was otherwise a cell with no windows.

Edward groaned as he pushed himself onto his shoulder and kissed her back. And beneath his lips, her mouth was as open and honest as she was. He hardened instantly.

But instead of getting under her sweatshirt and into her jeans, he pulled back and tucked her against him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

He just shook his head. And then he closed his eyes.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he drifted off to sleep … stone-cold sober.

“Marriage, huh.”

As Lizzie stood above Lane, she took his face in her hands and smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. God, he was so handsome, so shatteringly attractive, even with the bags under his eyes and his five-o’-clock—make that nine forty-five p.m.—shadow and his hair that was growing out shaggy from its trim.

“You’re asking me to marry you?” she heard herself say. And