Dark Notes

Emeric told me once if anyone touched me, his response would be murderous. He’s a man of his word. Lorenzo is gone. Dead. No longer able to hurt me. I still feel heavily weighted by shock, my insides aching with the loss of Schubert and coiling with worry over Emeric taking such a drastic gamble with his future to protect me. But we’ll get through this together, no matter what.

Sitting on the bed beside my feet, he traces a hand along the outline of my leg in the blankets. His chiseled face is smoothed into a calm mien framed in exhaustion. His black hair spikes in a chaos of perfection, and a steel gray Henley stretches across his shoulders, accentuating the strength of his neck. He risks that neck for me repeatedly, and today was no different.

My grateful smile comes easily. “How long have I been out?”

His jaw shifts, mashing the gum in his mouth. “Six hours.”

I’m aware he spent that time dealing with Lorenzo’s body. What did he do with it? The flicker in his gaze tells me he anticipates the question, but there’s a hard glare there, too. He’s not going to tell me.

I don’t want him to carry this burden alone, but it would be important to him to keep me isolated from the details. Pushing him on it would only make him frustrated and conflicted.

I can be rational on this one thing.

His hand moves over the bend of my knee, his thumb stroking against the covers. “Your brother is leaving.” He looks at Shane and steels his voice. “For good this time.”

Blowing out a breath, I check what I’m wearing—another one of Emeric’s t-shirts. No panties. I shift to sit against the headboard, dragging the covers with me, and meet Shane’s eyes.

He scoots to the edge of the chair and rubs his palms over his jeans, watching the movement. “It’s a little late, but I’m saying it anyway.” He glances at me. “I’m sorry.”

Two words don’t erase years of abuse and bullshit. However, his actions today, his choosing me over Lorenzo, hit hard and true, fracturing the ugly barrier between us.

A fracture doesn’t bring down a wall. But it does leave behind a precious weak point, one that will always be there. Whenever I think of him, I’ll feel that fracture and remember it fondly.

Emeric studies our interaction, his expression neutral, his caresses lingering on my ankle.

Shane lifts a hand and reaches for mine, making an awkward hesitation in the space that separates us before hooking our fingers together.

He smiles sadly, squeezes my hand, and whispers, “Fuck you, Ivory.”

I squeeze back. “Have a nice life, Shane.”

He pulls his hand away, then his gaze, and walks out the door without looking back.

A pang of loss tightens my chest. The urge to stop him tenses my legs.

But he broke into Emeric’s house. He beat me for years. I’m no longer a victim. With those reminders, I let him go.

Emeric follows him out. When he returns a few minutes later, he strips naked, slides into bed behind me, and curves his body around mine. I revel in the warmth of his skin and twine our legs together, melting against his chest with a sigh.

Instead of demanding I talk or eat or take my medicine, he touches his mouth to my shoulder then my neck and jaw. When I turn in his arms, he teases my lips apart and sinks his tongue in to slide against mine. The scruff on his chin rubs softly. Cinnamon flavors his breaths, his lips a firm pressure of sensuality.

His mouth is the best place to get lost in.

With my hand on those sexy indentations in his waist, I nip, lick, and taste, taking my time, following his lead. It’s a kiss without expectation, a melding of lips simply for the comfort in the connection.

We maintain that gentle mood for the remainder of the evening.

The next morning begins with a fight.

He says we’re not going to school. He can do what he wants. I’m going. He thinks I need rest and refuses to leave me home alone. It’s Friday. I can rest over the weekend. If we both miss another day, we might as well announce our relationship over the intercom.

We argue for an hour. I win. It turns out to be an uneventful day. And fruitless. My concentration is shit. Emeric might’ve been right about one thing. I need rest—the mental kind.

By Saturday afternoon, the sore spot on my stomach where Lorenzo kicked me turns a violent shade of purple. Emeric’s horror at seeing it is the impetus for our inevitable conversation.

We soak in the tub, my back against his chest and his legs bracketing mine. As I walk him through what happened, he swirls soap over my skin, his fingers massaging and soothing. I give him every gritty detail, my voice strong at the beginning. When I tell him about my brainless attempt to use my safe word, his body turns to stone beneath me. My voice wavers from there. By the time I recall those final moments with Schubert’s body in my arms, I crumble against him.