“Why?” I ask, only slightly offended. “Is it grossing you out?”
He stills in surprise, then lifts his eyes to mine. “No, it’s notgrossing me out.” He pauses and I know he’s weighing his words, deciding how much of himself he wants to reveal. When he finally speaks, his words are halting. “You’re beautiful. Always. In a ratty t-shirt with messy hair or in those goddamn six inch stiletto heels with a gorgeous dress.”
Beautiful.
Nate thinks I’m beautiful.
His mouth touches the tip of my nose in a fleeting kiss so tender, it makes me want to cry. When his lips move to the aching spot above my eyebrow, then over to my bruised temple, depositing tiny kisses in their wake, I have to fight the tears building behind my eyes.
“I want to erase it because it’s a reminder of the man who hurt you. I don’t want his mark on your skin. Every time I see it, I’m reminded that I failed to keep you safe. Failed to protect you when you needed me most.” His jaw clenches. “And every time you look in the mirror, you’re reminded of the worst day of your life.”
The tears I was fighting win the battle — they gloss over my eyes as I lay my hands on his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm.
“You didn’t fail me,” I whisper to his mouth, because I can’t look into his eyes — if I do, my tears will spill over.
“I did. If you’d trusted me when I told you he was dangerous, you wouldn’t have gone with him that night.”
“Exactly.” I shake my head. “That’s not your fault, it’s mine.”
“No.” His voice is firm. “That’s on me, West. I didn’t give you a reason to trust me. I fucked up. And you got hurt because of it.”
“You can’t blame yourself for this, Nate.” I press my fingertips harder into his chest. “I was angry at you. Angry and stubborn and too proud to admit you might be right. That’s not on you. That’s on me.” My voice gets smaller — I’m ashamed of the next part. “And, if I’m honest, there was a part of me that enjoyed thinking you might be jealous. That it might hurt you, seeing me with him.”
There’s a loaded silence when my words trail off. I’m suddenly terrified to look at him, which is unfortunate because his thumbs find the soft spot beneath my chin, and then he’s tilting my face up to look into his. As soon as our eyes meet and he sees the tears gathering there, a look flashes over his face. It’s possessive, almost predatory.
“I hope those tears aren’t for me, little bird.”
“What tears?” I ask shakily, as they track down my face. “I don’t see any tears. You should get your vision checked.”
Denial is always the answer.
A soft smile tugs at his mouth. It’s new and old at the same time — a revolutionary look forthisNate, the hardened man with too many memories in his eyes, but not for the Nate of my youth. I remember that same gentle smile on the lips of a ten-year-old boy when I’d trail after him and Parker on one of their adventures; that same look on his face when I’d ask for help with math homework at the kitchen table and he’d grudgingly show me how to do fractions. (For the third time.)
“Must be my imagination,” he murmurs, wiping away an escaped tear with the pad of his thumb.
“Definitely,” I agree, still weeping steadily.
His arms slide around my back, my hands slip up over his shoulders, and for a few minutes, I let my tears drip into the fabric of his t-shirt. He doesn’t say anything — he just holds me.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” I hiccup after a while, voice muffled against his body. I pull back and see I’ve made a mess of his shirt — dark wet splotches cover the entire shoulder section. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Don’t apologize.” He ducks to catch my eyes. “It’s just a shirt. It’ll dry.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You went through a trauma. This is normal.” He runs a hand through my hair, petting me like a scared child. “You acting like everything’s fine and baking cookies and wanting to go back to your place right away — that’snotnormal.”
“But you shouldn’t have to deal with me being a mess. You’ve got enough to—”
“West.” His voice is stern. “I can handle it.”
I glance up at him from beneath my eyelashes, still wet with traces of my tears. “You were wrong, before.”
His eyebrows go up. “About?”
“It wasn’t the worst day of my life, when Cormack took me.”
Dark eyes scan my face, a question in their depths.