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I love him so much, I would die for him, in this life and the next and the one after that. In every plane of existence, I will find a way to be there for him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bellamy
“Just come back to mine, please,” I plead, tugging on Sunday’s thin black tee after Dallas drops us off. We’re closer to his loft, but I’d feel much better going back to my place. It’s not that I don’t like his apartment; it’s a gorgeous place. It just has a distinct lack of warding runes, and it stinks of bleach right now.
His breath fogs the air between us, the evening temperature turning to a biting cold. The sky is dark, thick black clouds starting to suffocate the moon. There’s that distinct smell in the air that comes before the rain, damp and earthy.
I set off in the direction of my apartment, still tugging on his shirt. His reluctance only goes so far. He caves, trailing after me like a dog on a leash. I feel a little smug about winning the argument before it even started, barely holding back the spring in my step.
We are only a couple of blocks away when the heavens open, sending a deluge of freezing water down my back. I gasp, the downpour plastering my hair to my head instantly.
Sunday’s fingers loop into mine before he takes off running. I don’t have a problem keeping up, his pace slower than normal, probably on my account.
When we get to my building, I punch in the code with numb fingers while Sunday uses his body to shield me from the rain. I hear it thumping against his back as I finally manage to push through the door. My teeth chatter as I call the elevator down, my legs too wobbly for the stairs. I don’t think Sunday will mind too much either, with the way he’s limping slightly.
My gaze roams up his body as the doors close, the disembodied robotic voice narrating our ascent. His combat pants are so wet they look pasted on, his tee clinging to every valley and groove of his muscles.
Our panting breaths synchronize, water dripping from our clothes and pattering on the floor. My eyes hit his, and the oxygen is sucked out of the small space as he stares at my lips.
I think about the tarot cards, and The Fool. It’s often thought that The Fool is so called because he walks off the edge of the cliff, distracted and unwary. But maybe that’s all wrong. Maybe the true fool is the one who sees what is waiting at the bottom yet still refuses to take that leap.
“Can I—” Sunday starts.
“Yes,” I breathe, stepping toward him. I don’t need to hear the question, because it’s written in every line of his face, in the atoms vibrating between us.
I don’t know who moves first, just that our rain-wet bodies collide. I have no shame about standing on the toes of his boots to try and get closer, yanking the hair at the back of his neck to pull him down to me.
His lips crash into mine in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that makes my head spin. His palm cups my jaw, my free hand sliding up under his tee to count his ribs, gliding over all that shredded muscle. I shove my hands up farther, taking the fabric with me.
He laughs into my mouth, the sound so delicious that I let out a whine. He pulls away, but I try to follow him, my tongue reaching to lick at the seam of his kiss-bitten lips.
“Maybe not in the elevator, baby,” he murmurs, low and deep. It’s so hot, the timbre of his voice when it drops even lower like that.
The elevator chimes, saving me from smashing the emergency stop so he can take me right here against the wall. Instead, I hook a finger into his belt loop, tugging him down the corridor to my door. I kick over the doormat, scrabbling for the spare key I keep there, my other set still abandoned somewhere in Sunday’s apartment.
As soon as Sunday nudges the door shut, we bend to remove our shoes. As I stand, I falter. Those swirls of ink stop me in my tracks, every time.
His body is both a garden and a grave, beautifully devastating and something I find myself begging to be buried under.
Hunger builds in my gut as Sunday drops his tee with a wet thud. The only thing that stops me from jumping his bones is his perplexed expression. He wants this, I can tell he does. But there’s something akin to concern pinching his face.
“What are we?” he says hoarsely, a little divot appearing between his brows.
“What we’ve always been,” I answer, automatic and honest.
His head tips to the side. “And what’s that?”
I can see now, how the tables have turned. All the fear and reluctance I’ve given him recently, reflected back at me. My mirror.
It would be so easy to fall for him again. This version that’s softer, and sadder, and just as giving. The ache for him is in my very being.
I take slow steps toward him, finding the clasps on my overalls and flicking them undone, throwing the straps over my shoulders, letting the flap fall forward. When I reach him, I take his hands and curl those ink-blackened fingers into the hem of my pastel-striped tee.
The last time these hands were here, he told me it was the end of us.
“Inevitable,” I finally breathe, answering his question with a painful, freeing truth.
