His scarred body.
He eventually stops directly above the flame and holds it there, his torso tensing. He’s hurting.
I don’t call out, don’t disturb him. I’m rapt, watching him withstand the heat. Then suddenly he pulls away and looks down at the center of his palm. “When you’ve been burned alive,” he whispers, looking up at me, “nothing can hurt as much.” He rests back and gives me a look that suggests I should go to him. So I do.
The moment I’m close enough, he takes my hand and pulls me onto his lap, positioning me just so, my back to his front. My eyes root to the flickering flame as he takes my arm. “Nothing will ever hurt you like this hurt you.” He draws faint lines up and down the scar tissue. “Not physically or mentally.”
“I’m in a mindfuck that hurts quite bad right now.”
“Your mindfuck has nothing on this,” he says, holding up my deformed arm in front of us before sliding his palm down to my hand and lacing our fingers. “That’s why you’re here.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I reply on a whisper. “And because I love you.”
“And because you love me.” He brings our entwined hands to his mouth and kisses them. “And I’m hurting now more than I thought possible again, because I love you too.”
I swallow, the flame swaying rhythmically. I keep asking myself how I can love James. It’s a mental battle I’m having every minute. Sensibility is yelling at me to break away before my love kills me. Logic is demanding I stay before something else kills me. Don’t break the bond. “How can you love me?” I ask, and the moment the question is out there, he stills beneath me. Even his heart beating into my back slows.
“Turn around,” he orders, helping me to shift on his lap until I’m facing him. I spend some needed time taking in every inch of his face. From his mussed-up hair to his rough stubble. From his soulful eyes, to his beautifully shaped lips. From his defined jaw to his perfectly crooked nose. Every inch of this man is breathtaking. Every part of him sends my senses into meltdown. His rough, gravelly voice. The words he says. The feel of his touch on my skin. His scent. Manly but soft. His tongue in my mouth. The taste of him.
Flattening my palm, he places it on his shoulder. “I can love you because you’re as merciless as I am.” He moves my fingers across the bumpy flesh of his shoulder, and my eyes fall there, seeing my scars blend with his. “I can love you because you’re crippled by hatred and a sense of injustice.” My eyes bolt back to his, and I lose myself in their blazing depths. “Your love for me walks hand in hand with your hate for the world.” Bringing my hand to his lips, he presses a kiss in the center of my palm. “They are equals. Passion fueled. Your love and your hate are what makes you, Beau, and mine is what makes me.” His hands land on my hips, and my traitorous lip wobbles. Love and hate. I couldn’t stop loving this man if I tried, no matter who he is. And I couldn’t stop hating the world if my life depended on it. But I can do both. Love and hate. “I will treasure your love, and I’ll nurture your hate. Because without your hate, you’re not the woman I love.”
“That’s so fucked up,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“That’s so us,” he replies, taking my nape and holding me firmly. “We understand each other. Feel each other’s pain. See each other’s struggles. I’ve searched for one reason not to love you, and yet all I can find are a million reason to love you.”
I’m not sure if a weight has been lifted or lowered onto my shoulders. I feel heavy but light. Hopeful but full of dread. “That’s quite swoony for an assassin,” I say, and he smiles a little.
“It’s not swoony. It’s the truth.” His eyes lower to my exposed chest, and he leans forward, peppering kisses over each boob before finishing on my tummy. “We should eat.” Cupping my ass, he stands effortlessly and takes me to the kitchen area, placing me on the counter by the sink.
“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” I ask, glancing around, now noticing all of the windows are no longer clear. No one can see in. Protection.
“He thinks the job’s done,” he says, going to a cupboard.
“Well, it’s not,” I say, motioning to his beast of a body, like he could have missed the fact that he’s still breathing. Thank God. “Surely when he doesn’t get word from those men, he’ll know you’re still here.”
“He has got word from his men,” James says, and I withdraw. Did one of them get—