"Selena?" He said her name, whispered it, and she let out a low, breathless moan.
Slowly, not wanting to, but unable to stop herself, she opened her eyes. He stared down at her, barely breathing, his mouth drawn in a hard, straight line. But it was his eyes that destroyed her. So blue, so sad .. .
If she leaned forward just a little, tilted her chin, he would know how much she wanted him, how desperately she still loved him. He would take her, right now, amidst the frozen flowers and the dying grass, in the garden that smelled of the last white chrysanthemums. And she would let him. God help her, she would let him.
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I shall be honorable, Ian.
"Ah, Selena, you're killing me." He seemed to deflate. The anger left his eyes, his breath released in a ragged sigh, his shoulders rounded. His hold on her eased, melted into gentleness.
He looked beaten, so sad and utterly without hope, and suddenly she couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stand his pain, or her own. She loved him, loved him more than life, and she couldn't hurt him anymore. How could she ever have thought she could?
"Is it gone so quickly?" she murmured, reaching up, brushing the moist hair from his eyes. "Already you worry that I do not love you?"
It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, his voice was hoarse. "I don't know what to think."
God forgive her. "Then feel," she whispered.
His hands slid down the wet wool of her cape and circled her waist, drawing her close, so close. She tilted her face up and pressed against him, finding warmth through the wet layers of their clothing. Overhead and all around, the sky blustered and blew, sending raindrops splashing down their cheeks.
They came together for a wrenching, passionate kiss that tasted of sweet raindrops and bitter desperation. She clung to him, whispered his name, moaned her surrender, and knew suddenly that she'd never had a choice, not really, not in the face of this.
He drew back, gazed down at her greedily. His fingers moved across her face in disbelief, touching, stroking, memorizing. He pulled the starched white cap from her head, let it fall to the ground.
"Ah, Selena," he breathed, "I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too, Ian. So much ..."
He clung to her, stroked her wet hair from her eyes and rained kisses on her forehead, greedy, hungry kisses that seared her cold flesh. She curled into his arms and let him hold her, pressing her body tightly against his, drawing strength and comfort. It felt right, so right to be
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in his arms. She closed her eyes and dreamed-of the future they would never have, the children she would never bear.
"Selena." He said her name so quietly that for a moment, she thought it was the wind. She waited for him to go on, but he said nothing, and the silence hurt her in a way that no words ever could.
Very slowly, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him. Rain splashed his face, slid down his cheeks in zigzagging lines. "There is one thing left for you to teach me, Ian."
He took her face in his wet hands, held her with infinite gentleness. "What's that, goddess?" "Teach me to live without you." Behind him, lightning snaked across the sky, exploded in a brilliant white flash above the trees. He drew her into a fierce, desperate hug. Rain fell all around them, battered their skin and soaked their clothes.
"I can't, Selena," he said in a broken voice. "I can't." She felt his words, hot and moist and whispered, against her ear. His warm tears slid down her throat, mingled with the freezing rain.
She forced herself to look up at him. His belov
ed face filled her vision, made her ache with need and want and love. She lifted a hand and held it flat, watching the raindrops land like stones on her palm. "God is crying for us."
Ian didn't smile. "The son of a bitch better be."
Elliot woke in a strange place. An unfamiliar bed. The room was big and bright with sunlight. And messy. Clothes and trays and bandages lay scattered across the hardwood floor, heaped over the backs of chairs. The window was pushed wide open. A crisp, sea-scented breeze fluttered the sheer white curtains. Beside his bed was a small, blue-painted nightstand that boasted a pitcher of water, two cups, and a thermometer.
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The memories hit all at once. A gunshot ... searing pain .. . clutching his chest and pitching to the frozen ground . . . Agnes, screaming her name, holding her hand ... the doc, saying Elliot would die, a blessing, really ...
He jackknifed to a sit, and at the movement, pain exploded in his shoulder. He clutched the wound, felt the bumpy ridge of bandages, and sank once again into the comforting pile of pillows.
Agnes, he thought. Where are you?