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“So I’ve been going over what happened in my head,” she said. “Because I can’t quite make myself believe it. I mean, it did happen, right?”
No question what she meant by it. “You didn’t imagine the incident, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You broke their arms. With your mind.” Her incredulity hit eleven on a scale of one to ten.
He put his spoon down and folded his hands in his lap, staring down into his white ceramic bowl. Patterns formed in the smears of soup: charged particles attracting others. As a child, he’d once imagined worlds existed on that scale.
“That’s accurate.”
“I don’t even know what to say. Wait, yes I do. Are you going to hurt me?”
The question hit him like a lash, though he supposed it was reasonable. He felt utterly exposed. Silas might’ve said any number of things, but he could only manage to answer, “No.”
But she noticed, and contrition flashed across her expressive face. “I shouldn’t have asked that. Duh. You saved me . . . and you did again with your brain trick, even though it hurt you. You’re a hero.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me.”
At that, he finally raised his head; it was the second time she’d said so. She’d propped her elbows on the table, and the way she’d leaned forward to make her point, it pulled the sheet dangerously low on her breasts. He looked—and he wanted her. Silas wished he didn’t, because it reminded him of all he’d lost and everything he could never have again. But she was beautiful in the way of a sunset in the mountains or a black swan diving by night: haunting, memorable, but ultimately ephemeral. The memory might linger, but she would not.
Juneau went on. “I guess I just don’t know how I’m supposed to feel, and really, I’m just numb, and tired, and I don’t have any more shock to spare.”
“Don’t be afraid of me.” He wanted to beg because he’d liked the easy way she treated him. It had been precious and new, and he hadn’t known how much he needed it until the fear crept into her eyes.
“I’m not.”
She seemed to sense his doubt and came around the table. To his astonishment, she planted herself on his knee. Oh, that was not a good idea. Though he didn’t intend to hurt her, it didn’t mean he lacked all male instincts. As she leaned into him, he noticed she smelled like him—the same soap, the same shampoo—but on her, it gained layers of sweetness. She’d taken her hair out of the braids, and it curled about her shoulders, brushing his bare skin in tantalizing sweeps as she breathed.
“I don’t know how to put this,” he said roughly, “so I’m just going to say it. I can’t have you so close to me.”
“Why not?”
Could she really be asking that? He found it hard to believe any woman could be so naïve. But he spelled it out anyway.
“Because we’re nearly naked, and you’re gorgeous.”
Juneau surprised him by leaning in and running her fingertips up his bare arm, tracing the pattern of his tattoo. Christ, it felt good. His muscles tensed. Maybe she wanted to go where this led after all.
“It might not be smart,” she said, “but I want you. I want sensation to dispel the pain and the exhaustion. I want to bang my heels on the bed until we both pass out and wake up feeling one hundred percent better, even though nothing has changed. I can tell you agree by the way you’re trying to pierce my hip.”
It was too much to hope she hadn’t noticed. But it had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with her golden skin and long legs and the way she sparkled with life. He had been dead so long that he wanted to get inside her and feel her heat. Maybe she could revive him all the way.
“That’s a natural physiological response to your warmth and proximity.”
Juneau raised both brows. “So you’re saying you don’t want to?”
“It’s more that I don’t trust anything good coming so easy.”
She grinned down at him. “I never said I’d come easy. I intend to make you work for it.”
He didn’t understand her lightness, especially under these circumstances, after everything they’d seen, and what she knew about him, for God’s sake. He said so aloud. Her smile faded a bit.
“Are you going to judge me, too? Tell me I’m not serious enough? Answer this: how does that help anything? How does misery make things better? I learned a hell of a long time ago that it’s better to decide to be happy—and pay attention here, Silas—make no mistake, happiness is a choice. If I choose to focus on all the terrible things in the world, then I might as well shoot myself because it’s not getting better. Or I can take my pleasure where I find it. I refuse to live my life under a rain cloud, even if other people think I should.”
/> “And what do you have to be happy about?”
“I’m alive. I’m clean and full, and I’m with you.”
