and I wish there were more light so I could make out all her features, so I could memorize the shape of her lips and the flush of her cheeks as she sleeps.
It’s a dark, clear-sky night. The kind of night when I like to go out behind the barn and away from the lights of the main house and stare up into the stars until I forget I have a body. Until I dissolve and am nothing but this emptiness floating in the infinite space between here and forever.
But with Mia in my arms, I don’t want to become nothingness. I want to be here, to relish the feel of skin touching skin, to hear her moan and see the flash in her eyes before she gives over to the pleasure and comes apart.
Not trusting myself, I remove my hand from her stomach and back away as much as I can without shifting the mattress. It would be so easy to touch her right now. In my bed. In the darkness. I don’t need light to memorize her. I’d use my tongue to trace the shape of her lips, my open mouth to explore the curve of her hip.
The darkness is the devil on my shoulder, whispering permission to do everything I can’t. To wake her and kiss her. To hold her hands and look into her eyes as I slide into her. I’m haunted by the catch of her breath, the arch of her neck as she moans, and I want it all again. Touching her would give me wings that could pull me from this hell.
But the reprieve would be temporary, and when I fell back down, I’d drag her with me.
I trace the length of her neck and swallow hard. “Mia.” Her name is a strangled sound tearing from my throat. “Mia, wake up.”
She jerks upright and the blankets fall to her waist.
Don’t go. “You need to leave.”
“I’m sorry. You . . .” She shakes her head and climbs out of bed. “You asked me to stay.”
Because I need you. “I was dreaming.”
“Right.” She stumbles toward the door, taking all the warmth from my bed with her, and I feel so fucking weak because I’d swallow my pride whole to call her back to my bed. To beg her to give me one night. One hour. One minute in my arms.
But Brogan will never be able to ask her for that again, so why do I think I have the right?
“It’s not your job to check on me in the middle of the night,” I say. “Don’t confuse me with my baby sister.” When she opens the door, she’s a silhouette against the hallway light, and I roll over in bed so I don’t have to watch her leave.
“I don’t blame you, you know.”
That word. Blame. That word makes my chest ache. It weakens the barriers that keep all my thoughts trapped inside. I swallow and slowly roll back to face her. Her back is to the hall, and her arms are wrapped tightly around her stomach. “Blame me for what?”
“For hating me,” she whispers. “I know you hate me and I don’t blame you, but I wish . . .” She turns her head.
“You think I hate you?”
She shrugs. “You don’t have to pretend otherwise. We just need to find a way we can live together when—”
I throw back the covers and leap out of bed, stepping forward, moving closer before I can stop myself. Then another step, because I’m drawn to her scent and her heat, crave it like a marooned man craves water. “I don’t hate you,” I growl. I should stop there. The wall between us is for her more than me. But I can’t stop thinking about her response when I told her she didn’t die that night. “Death would be easier.”
The words stole my breath and trapped my lungs in a vise—a feeling I relive again and again every time I remember them.
“You don’t have to lie,” she says. “I see it in your eyes, Arrow.”
“I don’t hate you,” I repeat, grinding the words between clenched teeth. “I want you.”
Her gaze jumps to mine and her breath catches, her lips forming a little O of surprise. “You . . .”
“I want you.” My eyes have adjusted to the light, and I rake my gaze over her—the dark tank top with the skinny straps that fall off her shoulders, those little cotton sleep shorts that make me crazy, those dark brown