The Man Behind the Scars

He moved over her, settling himself between her legs, and for a moment she could only look at him, feeling strangely fragile. Oddly vulnerable. And she could have sworn he knew it.

And then he moved against her. Teasing her.

The fire blazed anew, as if he hadn’t just thrown her over the edge. It was hotter, wilder. She gasped as the inferno rolled through her, shocking her, her hands moving to grip his strong shoulders, her hips once again rising to meet him, as if her body was already entirely his. As he knew her own flesh better than she did, and could make her do his bidding that easily.

He moved again, a delicious, tempting slide of flesh against flesh, and she arched against him, all helpless fire and need, and she understood that, in fact, he could. He did.

Rafe met her gaze, his own hot and dark and some kind of wild silver, and then, impossibly, he smiled.

Angel felt her heart break.

And then he twisted his hips and drove deep inside of her.

He set a demanding rhythm, but Angel met it, her body moving like silk against his, as if she’d been designed for precisely this. For this slide of skin, this unbearably shattering possession.

He slid his arms around her, pulling her even closer as his hips moved faster and faster, making that wildfire burn white-hot—and then Angel was falling apart again, falling into pieces, and this time he came with her.

* * *

They made love so many times that night and over the next few days that Angel lost track of time. Of the world. Of anything that wasn’t Rafe or his mouthwateringly beautiful body, that she only wanted more the more she had him. Of the magical things he could do, again and again. It was as if they couldn’t seem to quench the hunger, the need, no matter how many times they tried.

It was like being lost in a kind of fog, except Angel didn’t care if she ever came out of it. He looked at her as if she was a wonder, as if she was perfect. He touched her as if he wanted nothing but to worship her. He was addictive, and he was her husband, and an odd feeling started to grow in her as each day passed and they explored each other more and more. It was buoyant, and ever-expanding. It seemed to resonate in his hard face when she looked at him, when she kissed him, making even that grim mouth seem softer, somehow. As if he felt it too.

She had the strangest suspicion it was hope.

Almost two weeks passed before she bothered to check her email again, to see how the world had got on without her. The answer was: perfectly well. She lay across her bed with her laptop and found herself having to struggle to come up with her usual flippant tone in the emails she exchanged with Allegra. As if all those tough outer layers she’d thought were a part of her had been scraped away now. Here. As if being with Rafe like this, as if theirs was the real marriage she hadn’t known she’d wanted until it was too late, was making her…raw. She didn’t know where to put that.

Not sure you want to hear this while you’re off exploring the Scottish wilderness with your earl, Allegra emailed after several messages demanding more information about Rafe and her exact whereabouts, in response to that email Angel hardly remembered sending way back when. But I’ve had a visit from Chantelle. She gave me a rather large cheque (£15,000!) and said a lot of incomprehensible things about her bills. Please tell me that doesn’t mean your bills? Please tell me she didn’t…?

Oh, she did, Angel emailed in reply. And while £15,000 is a lovely gesture, that’s really all it is—a gesture. The old Angel would have ripped Chantelle apart. She could have ranted on the topic of her mother’s opportunism for days. It wasn’t as if Allegra hadn’t heard her vent about her mother before—especially in a situation like this. But this new version of Angel couldn’t see the point. It wouldn’t make her feel any better, and it wouldn’t change things, so why bother?

It doesn’t matter to me anymore, she wrote instead, feeling like someone else—someone far calmer and more at peace than she had ever been. As if being around someone as self-possessed and still as Rafe was somehow contagious. She found she liked this version of herself, with all her usual edges…softened. I’m sure she owes you at least that much. Keep it.

And what about poor Izzy? Allegra wrote back. No one’s laid eyes on her since that scene at the engagement party. You’re going to have to come back. It’s all gone pear-shaped without you in London, clearly!

Angel stared at that email for a long time. She was not, she realized with a trickle of something like shame through her belly, a particularly good sister to Izzy. She didn’t even know what scene Allegra was talking about, having spent the engagement party completely engrossed in Rafe—though with Izzy, it could be anything, and had probably involved forcing herself into the spotlight in one way or another. It always did. Angel had always despaired of her half sister’s antics, but for the first time it occurred to her to wonder if that was fair. Angel knew better than anyone how difficult it was to grow up with Chantelle as a mother.