Something around his eyes worked as he said that, but they cleared enough for me to smile easily back, through the memories he managed to yank me out from. I settled back on his chest, the weight of everything not giving me much choice. And he had a nice chest. The nicest, actually.
We lay there for a long time, silent once more. But not silent. The chaos inside both of us didn’t allow for that. But it was nice.
He played with my hair, easily and in such a way that I never wanted him to stop.
Ever.
I fingered the jade green pendant hanging from a leather rope around his neck, next to his dog tags. It was small, carved into a smooth circular shape that curled around itself.
“It’s a pounamu,” he said, resting his hand on mine.
I glanced up at him. “And I’m supposed to know what that means?”
He chuckled and the sound vibrated in his chest before he moved to rest his head on the headboard. I stayed sprawled against the warm and hard expanse of his chest, loath to leave.
Like ever.
“It’s a precious stone to Maori people. Otherwise known as greenstone. Passed down through generations. The longer it’s passed through a family the more mana it has, more prestige,” he explained. “People consider it a symbol of power. Some at least. It’s valuable in large quantities. And it’s a tourist trap now too. You can buy it at any store as a keepsake. But that’s not what it is. For Maori, it’s something more. But for me, personally? It’s peace.”
His eyes glittered with something. They weren’t seeing me. Not in that moment. The demons were back. “It’s stillness. When I was in a desert, filled with blood and explosions and shooting people for no reason other than they were shooting at me, and they were most likely shooting at me because someone else told them to.” He paused. “Or perhaps I was protecting someone. I like to think that. The lives I took weren’t just blood in the sand. There was a reason. The lives they took from me, from Gwen. His life. It was a sacrifice made for something.” His voice was thick and the sound, the sorrow underneath it, scratched at my soul.
He held up the stone. “But this, it was a little bit of home, of family, of peace in the midst of war.” He laughed. “Ironic, I guess, considering the pursuit of peace is the reason for most wars.”
I stared at him. Etched his smell, the feel of his body, the haunted expression on his face, all of it, into my soul. “You’re so much more than you seem,” I whispered.
His hands tightened around me as he grinned. “And what do I seem, Snow?”
I traced his jaw. “I don’t know. Still, I guess.”
“Still waters run deep, baby.”
Coming awake was like emerging from a tub of water. I hovered just below the surface, acknowledging everything that was around me: the furnace at my back, the delicious ache in all my muscles and the tenderness between my legs. I did it all still submerged, still underneath the world that would demand too much from me as soon as I surfaced. It was tempting, to stay there, drowning but peacefully so, enjoying the pleasures of life without the consequences.
But I didn’t.
Drowning was not a long-term plan.
I emerged, sucking in the air that was penetrated by Keltan’s clean, crisp scent and the faint undertone of sex.
The heat of the sunlight streaming in the windows that we’d forgotten to pull the blinds on, touched the areas of my skin not claimed by Keltan, of which there weren’t many. And the touch of that sunlight, that warmth from midsummer California sun, was nothing on the man with his muscled and tattooed arm thrown over my stomach, and his hard body pressed against mine.
I blinked against the rays, frowning at the cloudless sky and the calm sea beyond the sand at my window.
I wasn’t a morning person. That was an understatement. But this morning, I didn’t quite feel the overwhelming urge to commit murder if someone didn’t get me coffee soon.
That quite possibly could have been because of the furnace that was currently spooning me. He somehow sensed I was awake, nuzzling my neck. The scratches of his stubble sent delicious shivers up and down my aching body.
“Morning, Snow,” he rumbled.
I made a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat.
I was down from homicidal, but it didn’t mean I was happy. People who woke up happy were crazy.
Keltan yanked me back into his body, then flipped me quickly so he hovered over me, his chocolate eyes sparkling too much at—I glanced at my alarm—not even seven in the fricking morning!
“You’re crazy,” I said by greeting.
He grinned wider, his hand resting between my neck and collarbone. “And why’s that, Snow? What could I have possibly done in the five seconds you’ve been awake to have you come to that conclusion?”