Page 2 of Under His Command
“Did you want the water?”
He shakes his head, and I sit down on the porch at the same time, as instructed.
“The water is for you.”
And then I understand why he issued his command.
His lips start moving, but the low, dark voice fades out as I go deeper and deeper into myself, the world around me becoming a blur. A blur where all I hear are words like “Cole Finnegan was a good man,” and “I’m sorry, Dove,” and “he fought well,” and other things I wish I could just block out of my mind.
The news is cruel, and it’s ripping my heart open right in front of this man, leaving me raw and vulnerable under his penetrative gaze. I look up at him through wet eyelashes, and I can swear I hear him groan, groan as he crouches down in front of me and gently wipes a tear away from my cheek.
His hand is warm, scarred from the hardships of war, but steady and in control. I close my eyes at the sensation of his skin touching mine, and let more tears flow shamelessly. He’s got me. He’s here and he’s showing me that he’s got me.
“I know,” he murmurs, and the veils of my eyes snap open. The way his voice reverberates into my chest spurs butterflies to life in my core and in my belly. “Cole was like a brother to me. So I know, Dove.”
He swipes his thumb one last time across my face. His tongue darts out just enough to touch the droplet of water coating his skin as he licks my tear off his finger. I gape, watching him, my grief mixed with an unknown emotion—a buzz of light and darkness, and shame, and need. I need… I don’t know what I need. But it has everything to do with the man crouching in front of me.
“What’s your name… sir?” I ask, blushing at my own words.
His nostrils flare all of a sudden, and I’m not sure if I upset him. He looks important—like a lieutenant or… maybe even higher than that. I probably insulted him by not knowing his name.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”
“Rowan. My name is Rowan King.” His gaze lowers to my lips as he says it.
My heart leaps to my throat and my legs turn to jelly as I register the intent behind the look. But before I can nod or give him any sort of approval, he looks away, getting himself to a standing position. Disappointed and deeply ashamed for whatever hopes I was holding on to, my eyes drift to my shoes and freeze there.
Until I see his hand stretching out in front of me, a silent invitation to cling onto him, to let my grief flow into him because he can handle it all if I let him.
Slowly, I lift my gaze, and the sun hides right behind his head as if it doesn’t dare move an inch without being ordered to. The golden glow casting around his figure makes the sharp lines of his face even more prominent, and the shadows playing across his eyes give him an air of mystery I can’t help but want to decipher.
I extend my hand forward, taking his and allowing him to lift me up to a standing position. I’m then pulled into his hard chest, and every atom of my body crashes to a halt.
I mold around him like ivy climbing a sturdy oak, his strong arms coming around my shoulders and the small of my back, crushing me to him. A whimper leaves my throat from the ambush of feelings washing over me, and he swipes his thumb across stray strands of my ash-brown hair in response.
“Rowan,” I breathe out, and I feel his arms tightening on me protectively, as if I’m a toy he can’t bear to part with. Or share with the world.
“Yes?”
“It’s okay if you want to kiss me,” I say, instantly regretting it.
What the hell is wrong with me?! Maybe that’s not even what he intended when he glanced at my lips. Maybe he was just lost in thought and looking into the void.
Maybe it meant nothing at all.
This isn’t even right—using him to ease my grief. My brother certainly deserves all my tears, and I shouldn’t try to run away from the emotion just because it’s hard to experience.
Rowan’s fingers stop caressing my hair and they tangle into it instead, pulling my head back until we’re making eye contact. His eyes are hooded, and I bite my lower lip, feeling shameful, needy, devastated… and on the verge of breaking down again.
“I can’t let that happen, Dove. Not today, at least.”
“Why not?” I plead, tears welling my eyes again.
I feel pathetic. Utterly pathetic. But the way his hand pulls at my hair from behind my back sends tendrils of pleasure through my core, washing away the shame. Or parts of it.
“You’re grieving. It’s not right.”
It is right, though. It is so right.
