Page 91 of King of Ashes
I nod.
“Why?”
“Of my feelings for you.” Of you obliterating the other half that survived the aftermath and was stubborn enough to thrive against the odds.
He cocks his head, his index and middle fingers digging into his cheek. “You should be, if you feel even a smidgen of what I feel for you.”
A small smile teases my lips. “It’s not a competition.”
“I would still win.”
I roll my eyes at him, trying but failing to hide my glee. “You can’t quantify feelings, so how would you even know that you love me more?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“Because you could be the one to end me, and I would go smiling.”
That sounds ominous and romantic in a very disturbed way. His love for me feels darker, more nuanced, as if forged in pain and strengthened by obsession.
“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, and we’ll be fine,” I say, my voice ending on a playful note, but there’s an undertone to it.
Raw emotion shines in his eyes, his voice haunted. “You have too much confidence in me. You shouldn’t.”
My amusement fades as I stare into his sorrow-filled eyes. “Why? Would you hurt me, husband?”
“I’d sooner kill myself, but I don’t know how to avoid that.”
“Then why?” I breathe out, feeling exposed after he broke down all my walls.
His eyes narrow as if he’s sparring with invisible demons. “We all think we know best for the people we love.”
Leaning my elbows on the table, I steeple my fingers on my mouth. “A hypothetical question.”
“I don’t like the beginning of this conversation at all,” he grumbles, gripping the arms of his seat.
That sound brings the smile back to my face, and it hits me how natural that comes with him. Then I remember the gravity of the subject and clear my throat. “If an accident left me with lifelong pain, but you could end my suffering, what would you choose?”
He doesn’t even think about the answer, as if this scenario has played a hundred times in his mind. “Your life.”
“Selfish.”
“Perhaps.”
Tapping my chin, I tilt my head, locking eyes on him. “What if I ended up hating you?”
He waves a hand through the air, seeming unaffected. “So be it.”
“What if I didn’t want to see you again?”
“I would stay away and watch you from the shadows.”
“Like a stalker?”
“Like a man desperate for a glimpse of his life.”
He says things like this, instantly disarming me.
In a swift movement, he bends over the table, grips me by the neck, and draws me to him. His hot breath causes tingles to erupt on my lips. “I don’t think about whether my love is good, pure, or selfless. It’s not. It’s mad. It’s intense. It’s raw. And it’s obsessive. I would cross any limits for you.”
“Dangerous,” I murmur.
