Chapter Twelve
Luke
“That’s what married people do. They hold on tighter.”
I climb the stairs to the second level of the house, seeking out Ana and kicking myself for how I replied to those words. We aren’t married, Ana. Holy mother of God, what was I thinking? It came off like a rejection when I wanted her to be my wife, the only woman I would ever marry. The only woman I will ever love. Obviously, that wasn’t her point. We both know we’re not married. We both know we were engaged with every intention of being married, which requires the same commitment as marriage itself.
Meanwhile, I’ve been dragging her to me and kissing her, holding onto her in the physical, and then making ridiculous statements like that one. I must have her confused as hell.
And I fear I’m about to make it worse.
I don’t just have to take her back to the past that destroyed us, I have to question the morality of everyone she called family but me.
Reaching the top of the landing, I cut right to find a closed door I assume tells me where Ana is right now, the primary bedroom with an attached bath. I approach and I can hear her voice in my head. You left me, Luke, you, my ride or die, left me. That statement bleeds with remnants of her past. Everyone has left her; her mother, her father, her brother, they all died. Then me. I left, the one person who swore I’d never leave. I’d thought it was what she wanted, and that decision will now haunt me from this point forward.
I left her to grieve alone.
I left her to live alone.
For better or worse means for better or worse. I didn’t ask her to be my wife because I planned for everything in life between us to be roses. Of course, she tried to push me away. Of that, there is no question, but even if it was subconsciously, on some level she needed to know I’d stay anyway. I failed her. And I failed us.
And just like that, I’m standing outside the bedroom door, but I’m living that last night in Breckenridge, reliving my time with Ana there. I’m sitting in the chair in a bedroom, in the minutes right after we’d had sex, after we’d seemed to tear down walls, and start building them stronger.
The shower turns on, which feels like avoidance. No. Not happening. She will not hide from me. I stand up and I don’t bother with my clothes. Sure enough, I find her in the shower. I open the door and join her, pulling her to me.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She folds her arms in front of her, almost shyly. Ana is not shy. “I just needed the hot water,” she adds.
“What’s going on?” I repeat, guiding her out of the flow of water and against the wall.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I insist.
“Wasn’t there another way?” she blurts, her voice trembling with emotion. “Couldn’t you have shot his leg or his arm?”
My hands fall away from her. “He had a gun to the head of the princess I was escorting to another country. He’d killed three of our men. And I had no idea who was left that was on my side. No. It was him or me and the princess, and she was an innocent, Ana.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I don’t know how to do this, Luke.” She opens her eyes. “I don’t know how to be without you, but I don’t know how to be with you, either. It feels wrong. You killed Kasey.”
But it’s more than that, I think, returning to the present.
I killed Kasey and then I left her to deal with the pain alone.
Damn it, I have to just deal with the trouble we’re in and then talk to her about us. I knock on the door, only to find the door is actually cracked. I know Ana, and this is her way of saying, if it’s necessary, come in, even if she’d prefer I not. It doesn’t mean she wants me or us. It’s about logic and her training again, her understanding that right now, we’re on the run and emotions don’t get to dictate her decisions. Obstacles, like locked doors, can save, or cost, a life.
I step into the room to find a bed as the centerpiece while two chairs sit to the right by the window. Ana is nowhere in sight, but her shoes are at the end of the mattress, and the shower is running in the connected bathroom, with the door half-open.
With a lift of my hand, I toss the bag of clothes on the bed and open the bottle of whiskey, slugging back a drink, the burn of the booze far more welcome than the burn of my actions. I carry the bottle with me and step into the bathroom, and halt when I find Ana standing in a glass-encased shower, water flowing over her face, her perky little bottom facing me. It’s perfect, and I know just how it feels in my hands and pressed against my cock, a cock that is presently attempting to salute her banging, beautiful body.
Ana turns off the water, taking her time to wring the water from her long hair before allowing it to rest just above her narrow waist. I’m imagining my hands on her waist, pulling her down on top of my rock-hard cock, when she reaches for her towel. I want to deny her that towel, and join her, fuck her, make love to her, but there is too much wrong between us to make that right.
Damn it to hell.
I’m about two seconds from closing the space between us and getting naked with her when I realize this needs to be on her terms as much as possible. Our breakup was on my terms. Our recovery has to be on hers. For this reason, I force myself to lean on the bathroom counter and just wait, wait until she’s ready for me. At this point, she hasn’t noticed me yet, which tells me it’s a good decision. She is not herself right now, but then, she just saw Darius, another long-term presence in her life, die. And once again, I cut her off.
Fuck me, because I just keep fucking her and not in a good way.
It’s not until she’s wrapped her hair and then twined a towel around her lush curves, that she steps out of the shower and gasps as she brings me into view.
“Luke,” she whispers, her body tensing.
Not the reaction I want from the woman I love.
I lift the bottle of whiskey in the air. “I brought you a little liquid relaxation.”
“I’m not sure dulling my senses is what either of us needs to do right now.”
If we were about to fuck, I’d agree, I think, but we have to talk, and it won’t be an easy conversation to digest for either of us. “We’re not going anywhere until we get a good night’s sleep,” I counter, shaking the bottle in her direction, hoping to lure her a little closer and acutely aware of the fact that all that stands between me and her is space and that little terry cloth towel.