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Authors: Amanda K. Byrne

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BOOK: Fracture
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     Steeling myself, I poke my head out. He’s staring into space. “Tired?”

     He startles. “What? No.”

     “Bored?”

     One side of his mouth tips up. “Getting there.”

     I wander over to the couch and plop down in my spot. “How’s your wrist?”

     He rotates it, the bandage hampering the movement, but he still winces. “Stiff.”

     I can’t stand this, seeing him so uncomfortable, his body protesting and trying to drag itself back together. I gesture to his wrist. He holds it out, and I unwrap it, running my fingers over the bones. Swollen and, as I press down, his mouth thinning, likely tender. I keep the pressure light, working the tiny muscles and ligaments.

     “Think you can do that for my shoulder?”

     I nod and withdraw my hands. His sweater comes up, inch by inch, revealing his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. Angry splotches of purple and red, the edges a sickening yellow, cover a lot of it, his flesh a grotesque canvas.

     It hurts to look at him, to see injuries so similar to what Ryan must have suffered, yet Declan’s alive and Ryan is not. Sucking in a breath, I lift my gaze to his face.

     There’s no trace of emotion. Utterly flat. And there’s comfort in that. “Scoot forward.” I stand up, and he complies, propping his broken leg up on the coffee table. He’s given me a few inches of space.

     I kneel behind him, thighs pushed up against his back. He groans as my fingers dig into his shoulder, and my breath catches. “Too hard?”

     “No,” he rasps. “Keep going.” I do, working my way up his back and over, the heat of his skin burning through my jeans, through my sweater. His head tilts to rest against my breasts. The massage gets softer, becomes faint circles over his pectoral, hands brushing along the line of his shoulder. I could do it. I could lower my mouth to his, slide around and straddle him, and the temptation of it shocks me and makes me want to whimper with needs long buried.

     He shifts away abruptly and grabs his sweater, pulling it on. Well. That tells me. I climb off the couch and resume my usual spot, avoiding his gaze.

     Awkward. Very, very awkward. The silence grows more and more strained the longer it drags on. He breaks it by picking up the book and flipping it open to the bookmark.

     Oh, dear sweet baby Jesus. Listening to Declan read one of my favorite books is a sinful, sinful pleasure. He has the perfect voice for it, gravelly and unexpected. Pages fly by, but it’s not long before I’m starting to shiver with cold.

     “Can we stop for a minute?” I want a blanket and maybe some tea. No. Tea’s too cozy.

     He closes the book and levers himself off the couch. “Bathroom?”

     I point to the far door. “Through the bedroom.”

     I grab a couple of blankets and settle back on the couch, an old wool blanket wrapped around my shoulders. There’s cursing, and I tense, waiting for him to call my name. He doesn’t, and a minute later, he reappears. He lowers himself to the couch, jaw clenched, knuckles white as they grip the back.

     “Want a blanket? The heat doesn’t work very well in here.”

     He suddenly looks exhausted. “Nora.”

     “What?”

     He squirms around so much I get off the couch. He lifts his arm, the one with the dislocated shoulder, and jerks his head toward it. “Come here.”

     No. Oh, no. I’m not doing this again.

     “You need it. It’s not uncommon for people who’ve lived through traumatic experiences to take comfort from one another. Now. Come here.” He glares at me, and I glare right back. We’ve done this already, our impromptu nap, but I can’t deny I need more. So much more than he knows.

     Careful of his cast and the bruises on his legs I
know
must be bothering him, I climb over and stretch out against his side, spreading the blanket over the two of us. I
feel
him sigh, feel the tension drain from his body. Then he picks up the book as his arm settles around me, hand worming under the blanket to splay over my hip.

     It’s late when he lays the book on the table. He reaches above his head and flicks off the lamp, then slides down on the couch. He should move to the bed. More comfortable. Warmer. His hand slips under the blanket and gropes around, curling around my thigh and pulling it over his.

     One hand on my hip, the other on my thigh, I’m surrounded by Declan, his broken body protecting mine from whatever approaches in the dark. Tomorrow he might back away, or I will. But I think he needs this, and I can give this to him.

     Tonight, I’ll take what he’s offering.

     

Chapter Seven

     
“Baby, where'd you put the soap?” Ryan never put it where it belonged.

     
He slipped his arms around me from behind, tracing kisses along my neck. “Where you'll never be able to find it. Leave the dishes. Come to bed.”

     
Tempting, very, very tempting. I leaned into him and shut my eyes, body absorbing the delicious shocks as his hands roamed under my t-shirt. “Someone's gotta do them,” I murmured.

     
I gasped as he tweaked a nipple. “Later. Right now I need you.” He spun me around, lifting me so I was balanced on the edge of the counter. “Mine.” 

    “Yours, huh? Didn't you learn how to share in kindergarten?” His hands cupped my breasts. His blue eyes were hard and possessive. “No.” 

    That wasn't right. Ryan's eyes weren't blue. I blinked, and they were Ryan's again, the golden brown gleaming with desire and love. “All mine,” he whispered, dipping his head, his lips hot on my jaw. “All mine forever. Beautiful Nora.” 

    All his. Forever.
Yes
. Forever Ryan's.

    “Nora.”

     I burrow further under the blankets. It’s too damn early to get up, too warm, too comfortable.

     “Nora. Get up.”

     On a whimper, I open my eyes. Grey light streams through the living room window. Living room? Did Ryan and I fall asleep on the couch again? Bad habit. I thought we’d broken it.

     His shoulders are all wrong. Too broad. His scent is wrong, too. Not Ryan. Ryan’s gone, and Declan is not. I’m plastered against him. At his request, I remember, sleep clearing from my brain. For comfort, he’d said. Lifting my head, I try to focus on his face. The swelling’s gone down some more, the bruising around his eyes a gruesome yellow mask tinged with red. I trail my fingers over the bruising on his jaw. He doesn’t flinch, the hard gleam in his eyes not dissipating in the least. Such a difficult man to understand, Ryan’s opposite in every way. Yet here I am, molded to him like this is where I belong and I have no desire to leave.

     “Fuck,” he mutters. Heedless of his sprained wrist, he slides his hands under my arms and jerks me up, his mouth closing over mine before I realize what’s happening.

     The contact is a lightning bolt, piercing the last of the dream and the sleep haze and scattering it like mice before a cat. It leaves no room for doubt that this is exactly what he means to do, kiss me, no,
ravage
my mouth, his tongue slipping past my defenses when I part my lips unconsciously. His mouth moves with the confidence of a man who has been kissing women for a long, long time, kissing them and getting kissed in return. There is no
asking
in this kiss. He tells me with his lips, his teeth, his wicked tongue that we’re doing this, and we’re doing it
now
, so I’d better hang on. My mind threatens to blank as my body takes over, reveling in the increasing heat.

     Our noses bump, and he hisses, breaking the kiss. Shit. I’d forgotten about his injuries, the broken ribs and nose, the deep, throbbing bruises along his torso and thighs. A lapse. A side trip into insanity. Two people who’ve been thrown together by circumstance and nothing more, warm bodies to draw from. That’s all it is.

     I guess Declan’s not done being crazy because he grips my hips, positions them over his groin, and pushes up. I can’t stop the moan from escaping. My body’s completely taken over. It wants what’s between my legs and covered in layers of fabric.

     I dive for his mouth again, craving more. Needing more. He gives it to me, tongues thrusting and parrying in a primitive dance echoed by the rocking of our hips. One hand curves around my nape, his teeth nipping into my top lip as his other hand grips my hip, further encouraging their movement. It’s the sweetest, darkest kind of madness. I want to drown in it. I want it to sink me, sate me, whip me into a frenzy I haven’t felt in years.

     And as abruptly as it starts, it stops, Declan’s face impassive, his ragged breathing and the hard bulge under me betraying him. He shifts me to the side and sits up, pushing to his foot and hopping into the bedroom. He pauses in the doorway. “Who’s Ryan?”

     The mention of Ryan’s name drains the desire from me in long pulls, chilling me from the inside out. The dream floods me with images, guilt right on its heels. A vise squeezes the air from my lungs, pressure building behind my eyes. I will
not
cry. I curl my hand into a tight fist, nails biting into my palm as I push the memories back into their box.

     When Ryan and I first arrived in the city, we’d been engaged four months. Four blissful, amazing months, our future set, bright and full of promise. Our relationship had always been passionate, but those first few days in a strange city, before the responsibilities of his course work took precedence, we went to bed early and stayed in it until late in the morning.

     I can’t give him Ryan. I can’t let go of that sweet promise. Not yet. The day is coming. I give him a piece of the truth. “Dead.”

* * *

     Declan doesn’t say much for the rest of the day. Avoids me, actually, as much is possible for someone stuck inside. He responds with a grunt when I tell him I’m going out, and Ismael and Murat are with him when I return, burdened with jugs of water and some vegetables I managed to pilfer from an unguarded supply truck.

     They’ve brought him a boot, a stiff walking cast in lieu of crutches. The smile on his face as he tries it out changes it. Beneath the swelling and the angry colors on his skin I can finally tell he’s a man you’d look at twice. Maybe not handsome, not in the traditional sense. Too rough, and not in the rough bad–boy way. Hardened by experience, incidents that can’t be undone.

     He catches me staring and the smile fades. I wish it hadn’t. I wish it had stayed. I like it, and I want to see more of it. I want to know what I could do to put it back on his face.

     The boot, however, means he’s got more freedom. Freedom means he’s got everything he needs to get around on his own, and can go back to his flat. Or someplace else. He doesn’t need me. These few days have my fragile walls shuddering, so it’s probably a good thing if he leaves before they come crashing down.

     “Mila’s home. She says to come by.” Ismael flicks a dismissive glance in my direction. He resumes his conversation with Declan and Murat; something about soccer. Futbol, as they call it.

     Putting away the vegetables, I slip back out of the flat without a goodbye from any of the men. I’d expect that of Ismael and possibly Declan, but Murat? We might not be close — my fault, I know — but he’s always had a grin for me.

     The street’s empty and far too quiet. The crack of bullets in the distance is faint enough for me to assume the fighting must be in a different neighborhood today. I take my precautions anyway, the cold, damp air searing my lungs. My conversation with Cristian was cut short the other day, and I wouldn’t put it past him to search me out again.

     I take the long way around to Mila’s, backtracking and looping. She doesn’t live too far from me, only two blocks over, a walk that would take ten minutes, tops, if I was heading straight there. Instead I detour and check out the site of a supply off-load scheduled for two days from now. Confirmation of the offload would be nice, as well as what it is. The clinic’s antibiotics need to be replaced, and Declan could probably do with a painkiller or two that’s harder hitting than ibuprofen.

     Mila yanks the door open like she’d been waiting impatiently on the other side since I’d left my flat. “There you are.” She gives my hair a critical once over. “Too shaggy. You wait too long. Again. Come.” She leads me into her kitchen, where the straight-back chair is set in the middle of the floor, the tools of her trade laid out within easy reach. After the salon she worked at was trashed, she elected not to stick around to help with clean up. The neighborhood it was in was one of the first to fall to the rebels, and it was too dangerous, she said, crossing the invisible boundary every time she had to go to work. Her clients come to her.

     She runs her fingers through my hair. “Unless you have decided to grow it back out?” She hadn’t wanted to cut off my hair when I came to her two years ago, but I refused to leave until she did. One more way to sever the ties to my old life.

     “There is a club opening tomorrow night. You should come. Dance. Drink.” Comb trapped between her teeth, she snips away at my bangs. Tiny hairs tickle my nose and I try not to wiggle it too much.

     “A club opening? Really? Who’s spinning?” My girlfriends in college would drag me out dancing and pour a couple of drinks into me to get me on the dance floor. It was the only way I didn’t feel self-conscious.

     “No one,” she admitted. “It is not a true club, not like what we used to have.” Most of the dance clubs and lounges had shut down in the past few months, the streets too dangerous to be on at night. When boundaries shift on a whim, you could be safe one hour and in the middle of a hot zone the next. “It is like a…what do you call it? A speakeasy, I think. But it is a place to go, relax, have some drinks with friends. You come. Dance.”

     “I don’t have anything to wear.” Going to a club, drinking, possibly dancing, isn’t much of a commitment. I could handle it. I enjoy Mila’s company on occasion, when I’m sick of living in my head and the one-sided conversations with Ismael start to grate. Working up the nerve to leave my flat in the dark might take some doing, though.

BOOK: Fracture
12.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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