my arms and legs are so heavy. It feels like I’m in one of those dreams where you try to run but you just don’t go anywhere. I get as far as onto my hands and knees, but then I sit down again. I’m so tired. It’s hot out here, and I want to take off my coat.
But I’m too tired.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The smell of a wood fire always soothes me. Even back before the Ash. My feet are deliciously warm, and I’m cocooned by a large furnace of a body pressed so close to mine that not a piece of me is neglected. Talon’s arms are wrapped around me, my head is tucked under his chin, and one of his legs covers mine.
And what the hell is that smell? Wet dog?
He stirs, causing the wool blanket to scratch against my skin. I’m allergic to wool, but I can’t decide what’s worse—wet-dog-stinky wool or freezing to death.
I don’t want to move. My hair is still wet, my eyes are burning, and my throat is scratchy. Probably from my near-death experience, but still. Staying where it’s warm is the only thing I want. I skim the room, and I discover that Talon has used a half-broken card table to hang my clothes to dry. If they’re anything like my hair, it’ll be a while.
“Ilsa.”
He pulls me tighter. He’s spread his coat under me, protecting my backside from the dirty carpet, and I think I’m wearing his socks.
“Talon?” My throat burns, and I sound like someone tried to saw off my vocal cords.
“You’re awake.” The relief in his voice fills me with wonder.
I tilt my head to look at him, and he adjusts his body so that he’s half beside me, half over me. Except for the socks I’m wearing, I’m as naked as he is.
He smooths the hair back from my face, and my heart breaks a little at the combination of rage and tenderness written in the creases of his skin, the burn of his gaze. “It’s okay,” he says firmly. “You’re going to be all right.”
I think back to those moments in the water, at that point where I thought all hope was gone. “How did you get me out?”
“I grabbed hold of your hair,” he admits. “It was all I could get.”
No wonder my scalp feels tender.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, and there is so much guilt and self-loathing in his voice that my throat thickens.
I swallow, then suck in a breath as my eyes tear up. I touch his chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.
All the fear and despair of the last two days that I’ve been pushing down explodes from my gut, and I start wailing like a freakin’ dog. Talon holds me, presses my face to his chest, and lets me get it out. He’s so warm. He’s not ignoring me, or casting sarcastic comments, or looking at me like I’m a knife in his side. He’s holding me. He’s comforting me.
I can’t go on like this. Distrusting him, second-guessing his every move. Hasn’t he proven time and again that he’s the only one left in the world I can depend on? The only one who will come through for me?
Even though he despises everything I stand for, he’s all I’ve got. He’ll never love me. But I also know that if I give myself to him, let him lead me, take care of me—and yes, use me—it’s the only way I’ll survive. It’s the only way I’ll ever be happy.
My breath slows. I’m done with crying. I want it all to go away, and the only thing I can think of to end this is to thank him. To show him I am grateful.
To please him, as he deserves.
My hands rest against his chest, and I let them glide up to his neck. I press my lips to that spot over his heart.
His breath hitches. He grabs my hand, and I don’t fight him. I let him take it like it’s his to do with as he pleases.
Another kiss. Another. His heart quickens.
“You almost died,” he protests.
I kiss him again, tracing the thin line of hair that trails down his chest and stomach. His breath comes hard, fast, and he’s already turgid. I caress him lightly, run my hands down and cup his balls. He moans. His eyes flutter shut.
This is right. This is good. I kiss
But I’m too tired.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The smell of a wood fire always soothes me. Even back before the Ash. My feet are deliciously warm, and I’m cocooned by a large furnace of a body pressed so close to mine that not a piece of me is neglected. Talon’s arms are wrapped around me, my head is tucked under his chin, and one of his legs covers mine.
And what the hell is that smell? Wet dog?
He stirs, causing the wool blanket to scratch against my skin. I’m allergic to wool, but I can’t decide what’s worse—wet-dog-stinky wool or freezing to death.
I don’t want to move. My hair is still wet, my eyes are burning, and my throat is scratchy. Probably from my near-death experience, but still. Staying where it’s warm is the only thing I want. I skim the room, and I discover that Talon has used a half-broken card table to hang my clothes to dry. If they’re anything like my hair, it’ll be a while.
“Ilsa.”
He pulls me tighter. He’s spread his coat under me, protecting my backside from the dirty carpet, and I think I’m wearing his socks.
“Talon?” My throat burns, and I sound like someone tried to saw off my vocal cords.
“You’re awake.” The relief in his voice fills me with wonder.
I tilt my head to look at him, and he adjusts his body so that he’s half beside me, half over me. Except for the socks I’m wearing, I’m as naked as he is.
He smooths the hair back from my face, and my heart breaks a little at the combination of rage and tenderness written in the creases of his skin, the burn of his gaze. “It’s okay,” he says firmly. “You’re going to be all right.”
I think back to those moments in the water, at that point where I thought all hope was gone. “How did you get me out?”
“I grabbed hold of your hair,” he admits. “It was all I could get.”
No wonder my scalp feels tender.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, and there is so much guilt and self-loathing in his voice that my throat thickens.
I swallow, then suck in a breath as my eyes tear up. I touch his chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.
All the fear and despair of the last two days that I’ve been pushing down explodes from my gut, and I start wailing like a freakin’ dog. Talon holds me, presses my face to his chest, and lets me get it out. He’s so warm. He’s not ignoring me, or casting sarcastic comments, or looking at me like I’m a knife in his side. He’s holding me. He’s comforting me.
I can’t go on like this. Distrusting him, second-guessing his every move. Hasn’t he proven time and again that he’s the only one left in the world I can depend on? The only one who will come through for me?
Even though he despises everything I stand for, he’s all I’ve got. He’ll never love me. But I also know that if I give myself to him, let him lead me, take care of me—and yes, use me—it’s the only way I’ll survive. It’s the only way I’ll ever be happy.
My breath slows. I’m done with crying. I want it all to go away, and the only thing I can think of to end this is to thank him. To show him I am grateful.
To please him, as he deserves.
My hands rest against his chest, and I let them glide up to his neck. I press my lips to that spot over his heart.
His breath hitches. He grabs my hand, and I don’t fight him. I let him take it like it’s his to do with as he pleases.
Another kiss. Another. His heart quickens.
“You almost died,” he protests.
I kiss him again, tracing the thin line of hair that trails down his chest and stomach. His breath comes hard, fast, and he’s already turgid. I caress him lightly, run my hands down and cup his balls. He moans. His eyes flutter shut.
This is right. This is good. I kiss
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