Keeping Jahleel (Loving All Wrong #1.5)

Keeping Jahleel
By S. Ann Cole

Copyright © S. Ann Cole 2014

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Cover by S. Ann Cole

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F
or those of you who loved the hell out of
Jahleel
, thought the ending was not enough, and demanded more.

Here’s your “more”…

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it, and it darts away.

—Dorothy Parker

S
aying goodbye has never been a hard thing for me to do.

I was much too familiar with it.

Too familiar with chopping, punching, booting people out of my life due to my irremediable trust issues. But saying goodbye to someone I loved more than the woman who actually gave birth to me, was damned hard.

Goodbye, Lydia.

That was the last time I whispered the words inwardly before I collapsed to the ground.

Instantly, his hands were around me, catching me, holding me firm, whispering soft words of comfort in my ear. Assuring me that crying didn’t make me weak, that I
should
be mourning the person who had such a profound impact on my life, the person who saved me. Assuring me that this was not the end, but the beginning.
Our
beginning. That it was time for a new chapter. Time for me to trust someone else. Time to let someone else in.

Him.

I love you.

That was the first time I whispered the words inside or out loud since our journey to England.

I didn’t have the time to love. I had the time to mourn. Everything had been about Lydia. And him—
us
—had been pushed aside. He seemed understanding enough, being by my side throughout the process, holding my hand—even though I was sure he had to be uncomfortable around a bunch of people he didn’t know, save for my brother, my sister, and Lion.

If all this solemnness, tears, and bereavement was overwhelming for him, I couldn’t tell, because he’d carried a stoic expression all throughout. And remained quiet, speaking only when he thought I needed comfort.

I love you.

A second time I whispered it inside as he led me away from the black box, the black tears, the black lives, and towards our waiting vehicle. A downcast Thomas stood there, opening the door as we approached, eager to steer us away from beneath this black cloud.

A foot afar from the vehicle, I stopped walking and turned in my comforter’s arms. Raising the veil from my face so he could see my eyes, I whispered out loud this time, “I love you.”

Golden irises watched me, emotions elusive, buried deep inside, where no one could venture, where no one was allowed. Not even me. “I know.”

“Thank you so much. For being here with me…”

Warm thumbs caressed my cheeks, and his forehead creased with concern. “You okay now?”

“You’re by my side.”

“Good.”

“I want you.”

“You already have me,” his sincere voice told me.

I grabbed a fistful of his crisp dress shirt, suddenly filled with desperation, earnestness, hopelessness, as tears brimmed my eyes again. But these fresh tears weren’t ones of mourning. They were of fear. “Yes, I do. But…I want to
keep
you. How do I keep you? Tell me. Please.”

“Funny.” He laughed humorlessly, moving in and pressing his lips to mine. Our foreheads bumped each other’s next. Our breathing audible, mixing. Wide, passive grey eyes met warm, unreadable gold. “Was just here askin’ myself the same thing: How do I keep a woman like Saskia Day?” His head tilted to the side, mocking. “Tell me. Please.”

I smiled, relaxing a little. “All you have to do is
stay
. Through cool flames and fiery waters.”

“Well, then”—he smiled back—“you’ve got your answer.”