Atonement (Master's Protege 2)

My pulse races with the memory of our bodies joined as lovers. Memories surface, one at a time, like a photo montage. Cain, standing against the background of the ocean the first day we met. That stark beauty in his eyes only I understand, the steady anchoring of hands on hips displaying the courage he sometimes feigns. For wounded people like me and Cain sometimes cower. We sometimes hide. We don’t tell the truth because we fear being left behind.

And isn’t that the crux of it.

As he kisses me, a soft cry escapes my lips, and he makes it his with a deep inhale. That’s what he does—absorbs my pain, my emotions, my deepest longings, into his very being. Unites himself with me.

I crave the push of his fingers on my scalp, and the sharp but brief flare of pain when he tugs my hair. Another tug makes me moan, then I’m on my back and he’s on top of me, and my body melts beneath him like it knows what to do.

I’m spreading my legs, already so ready for him a few well-timed thrusts would break me apart, when I freeze.

I pull my head away. “Cain,” I say. Why is my voice choked? Why are my cheeks wet?

He doesn’t answer at first, but kisses my temple, my damp cheeks, then my lips again before he grates, “What, baby? Let me in you, Violet. We’re alone here. The doors are locked, and if we want fucking Armand to believe we’re really together…”

I shake my head. “No. We can’t fuck this up. We have to stay focused, because this is crucial.” My voice breaks. “It’s why I came here.”

With reluctance I feel deep, deep in my belly, he pulls himself off of me, but not before he brushes his lips against my cheek, then lifts my fingers and kisses them, too. “Here, Violet. Press your fingers to your lips when you want to remember me kissing you.”

I watch him go. It feels heavy and dark when he turns away from me.

He flicks on his phone and taps the screen. “We’re going to separate now,” he says in that deep voice of his I love so much. “Team ready?”

“Ready,” Joe says.

Cain curses and hangs up the phone. “Fine. Now it’s time. Motherfucker.” He stabs his fingers through his hair and yanks the car door open. “No matter what, Violet. No matter if you leave me or I get shot or whatever the fuck happens next… I love you. Keep the boots, and the puppy, and anything you fucking want, and know I love you.”

I open my mouth to respond just as the truck door slams.

I know what I have to do. I have my whole plan carefully choreographed, and now I only have to make it work. But my legs don’t want to work, and my heart… my heart’s still joined with his.

He loves me. And he didn’t have to say it out loud to make it so.

He loves me.

I turn to exit the truck. I will my body to move, to cooperate with the plan. To make this happen.

I didn’t come this far to fail in the face of victory, knowing I’m so close to the Holy Grail. I tap the barrel of my gun for reassurance. My Wilson. It’s the tool I need most right now.

I open my door. Cain smiles at me. It’s all part of our act. “See you at dinner, baby.” He takes a few steps toward me, gathers me to his chest, then kisses my cheek.

“Bye, honey,” I say, part of my act again, a role I need to play. “I love you.”

That didn’t… feel like an act, though. It didn’t.

He turns from me and stalks away.

It feels final. It feels real, and I hate that it does.

I lift my chin, remembering the first time here with him, when we rescued his sister. I shiver when a cold, brisk wind stirs around me, biting straight through the thin fabric of my top, and briefly wonder why the seasons change. Perhaps to remind us that the passing of seasons is like the passing of time, so gradual it’s hardly noticeable until you look up one day and realize everything’s changed.

I walk with my head down, my gun tucked safely beneath the long coat I wear. I won’t use it, not now, but I’m ready for if I do. If we were followed, Cain believes that Armand will approach me any minute now. I turn to an ice cream shop, closed now that we’re getting closer to winter, and finally find a hot coffee and cider stand at the very end of the boulevard.

That ought to do it. Order a cup of coffee, pretend all is good… and he’ll come out of hiding. And if not… plan B.

I go up to the coffee counter and wait behind several customers, my hands shoved into my pockets. “I’ll take a tall dark espresso, black, no sugar,” I order, when I feel someone step up behind me. Out of my peripheral vision, I see a familiar face. I turn with a half-smile as my coffee’s placed in my hand.