Page 98 of Bite Me

As he tucks himself in, laughter is shared between us. Dacre has a nice laugh. I’d like to hear it again. It’s lighter than I expected.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you genuinely laugh,” I say as I lie, facing him. I test the edges of our usual boundary by stroking my foot along his leg.

“You’re supposed to hate me, remember?”

He turns, and our bodies mirror each other, and there’s the comforting rub of Dacre’s thumb on my thigh.

“I do.”

“Good. Keep hating me. Because I don’t know what happens when you don’t.”

I scoot in closer, brushing my hands over his chest. His fingers graze through my hair as I lay my head on his chest.

Dacre rubs my head, and his heartbeat is a soft lullaby.

I don’t know what happens after this, and I don’t care. At least not tonight, I don’t.

Being let into Dacre’s world, if only for a night, is enough. Forget the marriage contracts. Everything else falls away when our skin touches.

It doesn’t take long for me to feel myself drifting off to sleep. I keep imagining Dacre pulling my chin up to kiss me.

“You didn’t tell me,” I say softly.

“Tell you what?” he whispers into my hair.

“You didn’t tell me your parents died.”

“I don’t tell anyone that.”

“You can tell me. You can trust me.”

“I know.”

His silence stretches on, and I almost doze off when he speaks again.

“I wasn’t very old when they died. I have very faint memories, more pictures than anything. My grandfather took in my siblings and me after.”

“What were their names?”

“John and Beth. Very traditional. There are lots of Johns in my family. My father was the fifth Everhart with that name, and then he named my eldest brother after him.”

“Are they all as charming as you?” I squeeze around his ribs.

“I wouldn’t know. I barely talk to them . . . My family isn’t like yours, Em. I’m not even sure my parents had kids because they wanted to. Sometimes I think it’s better that I don’t remember much of anything because I can imagine my parents however I want.”

Maybe that’s one reason he isn’t close with his older brothers. Maybe they know the real answer.

“Is anything you remember good?”

“The few memories I have are short. They’re like fleeting feelings and moments, but none of them feel solid anymore. I do remember my mother helping me get ready every morning, combing my hair, and helping me with my shoes. She’s smiling at me, telling me to be good.”

His chest heaves. I reach for his hand. My fingers graze over the fresh scar, and I squeeze the warmth of his palm.

“You should sleep,” he says.

“No, I want to keep talking. You haven’t told me your hopes and dreams yet.”

I have him in my grasp. Finally. Dacre is like an evasive animal. Just when I think I’ve created enough space for him to feel safe enough to open up, he bolts.