Burned Hearts (Burned 3)

“He’ll be back.”

“When? And what makes you so sure? Even you know that Dane’s got to be mired in a dismal abyss neither one of us can fully comprehend.”

“Hey, I’ve been pretty messed up over you and Amano.”

“But you weren’t the one to shoot us,” I reminded him. “There’s your big difference. And we survived. Even bigger difference.”

“He’ll pull it together, Ari.”

“I don’t know.” My eyes squeezed shut to keep the waterworks at bay. “This doesn’t feel right, Kyle.”

“Keep the faith. That’s what you’re best at.”

He took Amsel to the kitchen to feed him. I agonized a bit more, until I fell under the spell of pain meds and, yes, despair.

* * *

The next time I woke, it was to the sound of Amsel gurgling and making other silly noises. He’d clearly gotten over his unsettled state and was now oblivious to my anguish. My eyelids drifted open and I stared up at the ceiling.

I thought back to that horrific time in my life when Vale had kidnapped me and Dane had nearly killed him for it. I’d considered that a breaking point. I’d walked away.

What had I learned from that experience?

That I couldn’t exist without Dane.

His presumed death had been even more detrimental to me. But I’d had a baby inside me to focus on. Now Amsel was in need of my rising above my own pain to tend to him.

So I had to exist without Dane.

Somehow.

I asked Kyle, “Who changed Kid, you or Rosa?”

“I did.”

Not Kyle’s voice.

My heart leapt into my throat. My head rolled on the pillow and I stared at Dane.

In an instant, the most important defining moment of my life returned to me. Kyle and Sean had been bantering over me in the bar of a Sedona resort, minutes before Sean and Meg’s wedding ceremony had begun.

I glanced over my shoulder. And lost my breath.

The argument faded into oblivion as my pulse echoed throughout me, drowning out all other sounds, thoughts, everything.

In the corner up front sat two men, paperwork sprawled across their table. One salt-and-pepper-haired, distinguished looking, older. The other dark-haired and dressed all in black—jeans, boots, and a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal impressive forearms. Late twenties, maybe thirty. He had a very mysterious air about him, and he was staring at me.

Right at me.

His onyx hair was sexily tousled as though he’d just rolled out of bed with a woman who’d enjoyed mussing the thick, silky-looking strands. His piercing green eyes held a hint of intrigue and a hell of a lot of don’t mess with me. Contradictory signals that sparked my interest.

His face was a chiseled masterpiece. He had strong features with a stone-set jaw, balanced brows, not too thick, not too thin, and a nose that might have been punched a time or two, given the slight bump close to the eyes, but which still managed to look specially crafted to keep harmony with all the sculpted angles. A mouth that easily drew my attention, my gaze lingering on it until I caught myself.

All in all, he was devilishly handsome. Darkly beautiful.

It struck me that I would never consider a man beautiful, thinking it would undermine his masculinity. Not so with this one. He was beautiful and virile. Downright heart-stopping.

I felt a peculiar stirring deep within me. An innate reaction to his edgy perfection.