Never Let You Go (a modern fairytale) (21 page)

Pulling the canister of flour down on the counter, she rummaged through a cabinet beside the propane stove for a frying pan. Finding one, she placed it victoriously on the stove. She felt like singing, like dancing, like living. Like
living
.

Looking out the window over the sink, at the meadow of sweet wildflowers, she paused, breathing deeply and acknowledging the brutal and massive weight that Holden had just willingly and lovingly lifted from her shoulders. For most of her life, she’d felt guilty about two terrible things that she’d done: getting into Caleb Foster’s truck, and running across the Shenandoah River without Holden. And now, in the space of minutes, he’d relieved some of her burden.

Leaving the frying pan, flour, and chicken for a moment, she crossed the small living room and headed out the front door and into the field. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so lighthearted that she could take pleasure in something trivial or beautiful, so tears fell from her eyes as she leaned down to pull bluets, buttercups, black-eyed Susans, and white aster into a wild and colorful bouquet. Bringing the warm blooms to her nose, she breathed deeply, then looked around at the field of flowers, the trees in the distance, and the bright sun shining down on her slick, upturned face.

“Thank you,” she whispered, watching the drifting clouds break up the clear blue of the summer sky with thick puffs of cheerful white.

Turning back to the house with her bouquet, she wished there was a way to love Holden how he wanted to be loved, instead of the way she did. But the truth she was forced to acknowledge was that she had never seen Holden as a brother, and he’d always been more than a friend. She loved him in a way that was necessary, not luxurious. She loved him like the tide loves the sand—trapped together, one lost without the other, pushed and pulled, but never ripped apart. She loved him in a deep and singular way, almost as though God had crafted one heart in heaven, then split it between Holden’s body and hers, fating her to a never-ending longing to be with him, or a fractional life without him.

She sat down in one of the rocking chairs on the small porch, propping her feet up on the railing and wondering if he felt this way about her, or about Gemma, or about anyone at all. And was he capable of loving someone like this? He’d stayed with a monster like Caleb Foster until he was seventeen, then he’d returned to West Virginia, the site of their abduction and captivity. At some point, he’d started working a job he didn’t appear to care very much about, lived in an apartment that was one step above a hovel, and beat up other men for money. And the tally marks on his arm. She winced, thinking about them, about the stark and vicious loneliness that would make him keep looking so desperately for someone to assuage it.

Swallowing over the lump in her throat, she closed her eyes and let the warm afternoon breeze fan her cheeks and the scent of wildflowers soothe her aching heart. He’d given her the most incredible gift today in easing her terrible regret. Desperate to return that kindness, she vowed—again—not to get between Holden and Gemma. If Gemma filled the hole inside Holden, Griselda was grateful for her and would do nothing to jeopardize or endanger his happiness.

***

Waking up to the smell of fried chicken and the sound of singing, Holden kept his eyes tightly closed, convinced that he was still dreaming, because he had no one to make him fried chicken, and the singing voice sounded strangely like Griselda’s.

“I’m living in a kind of daydream . . . I’m happy as a queen.”

Someone was singing “The Very Thought of You,” an old song that Griselda’s grandmother had loved more than any other song.

“And foolish, though it may seem . . . To me? That’s everything.”

Sometimes, when Caleb Foster had left for Rosie’s and they lay side by side in the darkness, she would sing it to him, and he still remembered every word.

“The mere idea of you . . .”

“The longing here for you,” whispered Holden, blinking his eyes to open them, and looking around the tiny bedroom in confusion before the events of the last two days came rushing back to him.

He was in Quint’s cabin.

Griselda must be making fried chicken.

And Griselda
was singing.

“You’ll never know how slow the moments go ‘til I’m near to you . . .”

Staring up at the ceiling, his eyes watering with tears, he smiled. This was the stuff of dreams: his amber-haired, blue-eyed girl coming back from the dead and banishing every shred of devastating loneliness from his life with her warmth and stories and off-key voice singing poetry while she fried chicken in the tiny kitchen of a remote hunting cabin. Too fantastic to be true. Too heartbreaking to be real.

Sitting up carefully, he was relieved to find that his nap had chased away a good bit of the aching in his hip and chest, and even his face wasn’t throbbing very much anymore. His heart was a different story.

Now that they were here together, all alone, out in the middle of nowhere, it was going to be harder than ever to keep himself from advancing on her. Glancing down at his hand resting on his thigh, he felt the impression of her lips pressed against his skin and groaned softly. The next time she did something like that, he was just going to come out and say it: “Unless you want my hands on your body, you need to stop doing that.” Then she could skitter away, but at least she’d have been duly warned about his intentions.

“I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above. . .”

This girl. Everything about this girl made him want, made him long, made him yearn to
change
his life,
start
his life, finally
live
his life after a decade of going through the motions. He wanted to get a better job to take care of her. He wanted to stop fighting because she disapproved of it. He wanted enough money to have every tally mark lasered from his arm. He wanted some sort of guarantee that she’d never, ever leave him again. And he wanted all of it now. Yesterday. Ten years ago, and every day since.

Standing up slowly, he let his body settle into an upright position before taking his time crossing the hall to the bathroom and then heading out into the common room.

She stood at the stove with her back to him, her feet bare, her hair in a ponytail, the mouthwatering smell of fried chicken filling the entire cabin with goodness. Holden leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, a grin taking over his face as he watched her.

“It’s just the thought of you—the very thought of you, my love,” she sang, using a fork to transfer a golden leg to a paper towel–covered plate.

As she reached forward to turn off the stove, some of the leftover grease in the frying pan spat up at her and burned her wrist.

“Ow!” she yelped. “Damn it!”

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, Holden crossed the kitchen in two strides. He turned on the faucet and grabbed her arm to thrust her wrist under the cold stream. He held it there, wincing at the red blotch developing on her white skin. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was staring at him with a surprised, curious expression.

“It’s just a little burn.”

He shrugged, still holding her arm, staring down at the burn.

“You were asleep,” she said.

“You were singing.”

“Too loud?”

“No.”

“You remember that song?”

“I remember.”

He slid his palm down her arm to cradle her wrist from below.

“The stove’s still on,” she said.

Without dropping her hand, he took a step closer to her, reached around her waist with his free hand, and flicked the burner off.

“I made fried chicken,” she said softly, her cheeks flushed.

“I can smell it.”

“You like fried chicken. I mean . . . you must have mentioned it to me a hundred times when we were—”

“It’s still my favorite.”

They were both silent for a few seconds, and Holden knew he should drop her hand and step away from her, but he couldn’t. She’d hurt herself doing something kind for him, and it just about shredded his heart.

Just another moment
, he told himself.
A few more seconds touching her and then I’ll move away.

“Sorry about the singing,” she whispered, unmoving, her breath kissing his throat.

He jerked his neck to face her, his thumb curling into her palm, his eyes searching hers for mercy.

“I loved it,” he murmured.

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, her lips parting, her breasts grazing his chest through his T-shirt as she stared up at him.

“Holden, I . . .”

Every breath she took seemed to draw him closer to her, as if she was breathing him, not air. He leaned forward, into her, his free hand reaching for hers.

“G-Gris . . .”

Her eyes, dark blue and churning, flicked to his lips, lingered there, then slid back up his face and seized his.

His self-control snapped.

After all, he was only human.

Tilting his head, his lips landed flush on hers as his fingers slipped between hers, folding, binding their hands together. She pulled her hand out of the water, wrapping her arm around his neck, and sinking her wet fingers into his hair. His free arm encircled her waist, crushing her against his chest as his tongue traced the seam of their lips. She opened for him, touching her tongue to his and swallowing his groan as he squeezed her fingers, pushing her against the counter with his body.

Releasing her hand, he lifted her onto the countertop beside the sink, reaching back quickly to turn off the water. She parted her knees so he could step between them, and his hands landed on her hips, his fingers kneading her skin through the denim of her jeans. Wrapping her other hand around his neck, she locked her fingers together while sliding her tongue against the velvet heat of his.

He dragged her roughly to the edge of the counter, fitting the softness of her pelvis flush against the hardness of his. She raised her legs and locked her ankles behind his back, whimpering softly as he sucked on her tongue.

His hard chest pushed into hers, every deep and gasping breath crushing her breasts as her fingers broke free from each other and tangled frantically in his hair, trying to push him closer, closer, as close as possible. His fingers slipped beneath her T-shirt, skating up her back to unfasten her bra, as his tongue stroked hers into a frenzy.

Spreading her fingers in the silk of his hair, she leaned her head to the side, guiding his mouth to her jaw, letting her neck bend back as he kissed a path from her lips to her throat. His palm curved around her ribs, the pad of his thumb stroking the pillow of her breast, finding her nipple and massaging it into a tight, aching point. His other hand followed, cupping her breast and rolling her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Holden,” she moaned, arching her back to slam her hips into his and whimpering when his fingers increased their pressure on her overaroused skin. He pushed her shirt and bra up over her breasts, baring them, and Griselda raised her arms so that he could lift them over her head.

Panting with want, her hands dropped to the hem of his T-shirt, shoving it up over the ridges of muscle until he grabbed the shirt at the back of his neck and whipped it over his head, throwing it to the floor.

For just a moment, half naked with each other for the first time ever, they were still, his bare chest a shadow away from hers, grazing her sensitive, straining nipples with every breath. With his hands at his sides, he held his breath and stared into her eyes, searching them, waiting for something.

And then she knew—somehow she knew. He was waiting for her. For permission.

“Yes,” she gasped, her palms landing flush on his cheeks as she jerked his face to hers, their teeth clashing together as his tongue tangled with hers, the heat of his chest slamming into the heat of hers.

His hands were suddenly under her bottom, and he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, kissing her deeply, madly, blindly, like the world would end if he stopped, and she wound her hands in his hair, the past and the present colliding into a moment she’d dreamed of since she was a child. Keeping her legs locked firmly around his waist, he carried her from the kitchen into the back bedroom and lowered her onto the bed, following her down, covering her body with his.

Her hands slid down his body, tracing the angles of his collarbone, the deep groove of his spine, the tight band of muscle at his waist that flexed under her touch. She felt the texture of a hundred scars crisscrossing his flesh, evidence of Caleb Foster’s fury and Holden’s willingness to protect her time after time. Tears blurred her vision as she slipped her hand into the waistband of his unbuttoned jeans and under the elastic of his underwear, her palm landing on the hard, hot skin of his ass. Her fingers flexed on the taut skin, and he gasped, stealing the air from her lungs and making him laugh softly.

“Gris,” he said, leaning back from her, his elbows on either side of her head, his hands gently cupping her cheeks. His face was a mixture of emotions: tenderness, surprise, arousal . . . and concern. His smile faded as his brows knitted in worry. “Are you sure about this? Oh G-God, Gris, I w-want . . . I want you so much, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

She knew the truth of his words because, in all her life, the only person who’d never hurt her, never let her down, was Holden. And yet, time and again, she had hurt him. And here she was, lying beneath him, tempting him to cheat on his girlfriend when he’d been trying so hard to be good.

She pulled her hand out of his pants, holding it suspended awkwardly in the air for a moment before letting it land tentatively on his back. The tears in her eyes trickled down her cheeks as she turned her face to the side, away from his trusting, searching eyes.

“G-Gris? What is it? Gris?”

His fingers brushed her damp cheeks tenderly, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, clenching her eyes shut.

“I don’t want to hurt
you
,” she said.

“Are you afraid you will?”

She turned back to him, opening her eyes. “I want you too, Holden. I want you so much. It feels like I’ve wanted you forever.”

His lips quirked up a little, and his worried eyes softened. “Then . . .”

“But you have a life. You have a girlfriend you love.”

He looked confused for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “Gemma?”

She swallowed, nodding miserably. “Gemma.”

He stared down at her chin before capturing her eyes again. “You think I love her?”

She wet her lips, willing herself to stop crying, because she didn’t want to make this more difficult for him. “You’ve been with her for six months. She sleeps in your bed. She has a key to your apartment. You’re . . . together. I don’t want to ruin that for you. I’ve already done so much to hurt you. I couldn’t bear it if . . .”

Holden’s eyes closed slowly, and he dropped his hands from her face, rolling off her chest to lie beside her. He released a loud, low, barely controlled sigh.

She couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, because she was so desperately emotional about him, and this rejection—even though she’d suggested and encouraged it—was more painful than she’d anticipated. They streamed down her cheeks as she stared up at the rough wood ceiling, feeling miserable.

Then, when she least expected it, she felt his fingers touch hers, reach for hers, effortlessly weaving between hers, his palm adjusting and readjusting until it was flush with hers, joined between them.

“Griselda,” he said, “I don’t love Gemma. I don’t even like her that much.”

Her relief was so visceral, the dam of warmth pooled in her belly broke forth, flooding her insides with heavenly release. She sighed, taking a slow, deep breath, and letting her bunched muscles relax.

“You don’t love her,” she breathed, exhaling with a small sound of pleasure.

“No.”

“But you’ve been together for months.”

“We’ve been
fucking
for months. That’s all.”

“Ah,” she sighed, her relief changing from a warm and soothing feeling of deliverance to a gathering, like a seed of anticipation that grew rapidly, making her heart speed up and her sex ache, throbbing to be filled by his.

“I don’t . . .,” he paused, his body rigid beside her. “G-Gris, I’m not sure I know how to love someone. Sometimes I feel like that part of me is . . . b-broken.”

“It’s not,” she said with certainty, rolling onto her side and resting her cheek on her arm to stare at his face in profile. Her need to touch him, to continue where they’d left off a moment before, made shivers of want break out across her skin, changing her breathing, further quickening her galloping heart.

“How do you know?” he asked, hope breaking his voice.

“Because I know. Because I know
you
. Because I know your heart. Because that part of you might be hidden, but it isn’t gone.”

It was his turn to flinch, before scrubbing his hand over his forehead. “What about you? You’re with someone too. Jonah. You’re living with him.”

“I don’t like him either,” she said without thinking, licking her lips as she focused solely on Holden.

“We’re both with people we don’t even like,” said Holden, reading her mind. “Do you have any idea how fucked-up that is?”

Yes. But we can change that. Starting right now.

“I’m not with Jonah anymore,” she said, her voice soft and even. “And I’ll never be with Jonah again.”

“Why not?” asked Holden, his voice low and his eyes fierce as he rolled onto his side to face her.

“Because for the rest of my life,” she said, dropping his eyes to gather her courage before lifting her chin and spearing him with her gaze, “I only want to be with you.”

***

Her words knocked the wind out of Holden’s lungs, and he inhaled sharply, staring at her in shock, and realizing that she was right: he
was
still capable of loving someone. Some deep and hidden part of him recognized this was true because the feeling that welled up inside him was so much bigger than love, so much wider and stronger, and filled with so much grateful, intense wonder, there wasn’t another word to describe it.

Kissing her for the first time a few minutes ago, touching her breasts and sliding his hands along the warm softness of her skin, had felt glorious, but it had also felt like stealing something. He’d been aroused beyond belief, but he’d felt guilty too—like he was taking something that she hadn’t offered. And now, here she was, the girl of his dreams, telling him that she belonged to him. Telling him that what he was taking was already his. Telling him that she wanted only him. Forever.

“Oh God, Gris. M-me too,” he said. “I’ll break up with Gemma as soon as we go back to Charles Town. It’s over. It was over the second you walked back into my life.”

“I’m ruined for anyone but you, Holden. I always have been.”

He thought of the marks on his back and the marks on his arm, the countless nights spent looking for an antidote to Griselda’s iron hold on his heart, even from the grave. “M-me too. I’m ruined for anyone but you.”

“So we’ll try this?” she asked, her eyes searching his with a heartbreaking, hopeful uncertainty that made him desperate to reassure her, to let her know how deeply and irrevocably he would love her for the rest of his life if she would only give him the chance—the honor—of being with her. “Being together?”

“We’ve always been together,” he whispered reverently, reaching for her, his fingers landing on the bare skin of her waist and pulling her close. She was soft, so soft and warm, and his heart thundered in anticipation of finally having her. “Even when we were apart, we were still together. Even when I thought you were gone, you still lived inside my heart.”

“I never gave up hoping that I’d find you,” she said, flattening her hand over that heart, which beat wildly for her. “There were times . . .” She winced, swallowing painfully. “There were times it was the only thing keeping me alive.”

Her admission crushed him because he was no stranger to that desperation, and he exhaled the breath he was holding, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers, nuzzling her nose with his as his lips brushed hers tenderly.

“Is this real?” he whispered, his eyes glassy and burning. “Is this finally real?”

“This is real,” she said, reaching for his cheek to pull him closer and kiss him more deeply.

She rolled onto her back, and he followed her, pressing her into the mattress and swallowing her moan as he moved their locked palms over her head. Plunging his tongue into her mouth, he stroked hers with increasing urgency, and she arched her body against his, her breasts flattening under his chest muscles as he surged against her, pushing his erection into the softness between her thighs. His free hand skimmed down her side to cover her breast, and she gasped. Sliding down her body to take the rigid point between his lips, he swirled his tongue around her nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

“Holden,” she moaned, burying her hand roughly in his hair, her fingers pulling the strands, curling into his scalp to keep him in place.

Grazing her sensitive skin with his teeth, she cried out, and he released her hand, covering her slick breast with his palm as his mouth drifted over the valley of warm skin to find its twin. As he teased it with his tongue, Gris whimpered again, her little noises of pleasure making him hotter and harder, his dick throbbing with the need to bury itself inside her.

“Are you wet, Gris?” he growled, blowing on her nipple and watching as goose bumps rose on her pink, flushed skin. “Are you wet for me?”

She whimpered as he slid his hand over the soft skin of her belly, opening the button of her fly with a quick flick of his fingers and smoothing his flat palm under the elastic of her panties. His fingers skimmed over her trimmed, curly hair, unable to keep himself from anticipating the way she would tease and tickle him as he moved in and out of her body. Clenching his jaw, he slid his middle finger between the slickened folds of her clit, finding the erect nub of hot flesh and loving the way her hips rose off the bed to meet his touch.

“Jesus,” he murmured, his thumb pressing her bundle of nerves like a button as he slipped two fingers inside her slippery sex. She was soaked and ready for him, and they’d only just gotten started.