Page 75 of Dreadful

Coconut shampoo. Warm skin. That faint sweet trace of the peach-scented glossy mask she puts on her lips at night.

My fingers spread wide against her spine, holding her there against me, and for once the noise inside my head starts to fade.

She shifts after a minute, propping her head up on her elbow. The movement makes the mattress dip, and a strand of her hair catches the moonlight filtering through the blinds, turning it silver for half a second before she settles. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, the left one still ringed in an ugly mix of purple and blue that makes something violent stir low in my gut every time I look at it—a fresh, hot twist of rage that tastes like copper at the back of my throat.

“You okay?” she whispers, her voice raspy from sleep.

“I am now.”

I grab her free hand, the one not holding her up. Her skin is cool against my palm. I drag the pads of my fingers along the length of hers, tracing the delicate bones beneath. How the fuck is her skin always so soft? Like she’s never done a day of hard work in her life, even though I know damn well she has. I lift her hand to my mouth and press a kiss to the top of each knuckle, one by one. Her breath hitches slightly.

“How’s the eye?”

“Fine.”

“Uh-huh.” My thumb strokes the inside of her wrist, feeling the steady beat of her pulse.

“I’m fine.” Her fingers slide into my hair, nails dragging lazily over my scalp before she pushes it back from my forehead. The sensation is so fucking good it’s almost painful. “It looks worse than it feels.”

I study her face anyway, tracing the fading edge of the bruise with my eyes. The skin there is still tender-looking, but the swelling’s gone down.

“What took you so long tonight?” she asks, her voice soft and unfiltered in a way it usually isn’t.

I roll into her, my hand sliding back beneath her shirt, following the warm curve of her back. Her skin is smooth and warm under my palm, and I can feel the slight ridge of her spine as I slide my hand higher. Her fingers continue their slow path through my hair, each drag of her nails relaxing a muscle against my will. My eyelids feel fucking heavy, and I stop fighting it.

I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t want to talk about blood dried in the creases of my knuckles or the way my own family feels like a fucking cage sometimes.

“When do you think people are entitled to each other’s secrets?” I murmur with my eyes closed.

Her fingers stop moving. “What do you mean?”

I open my eyes and find her gaze already locked on mine, dark and unblinking in the dim light. “Fucking or dating or married?” The words come out rougher than I mean them to.

Her brow furrows, but her fingers don’t stop moving through my hair. “Are those the only three options available?”

“Generally speaking.”

Her gaze drifts upward, tracing the lines of my face before settling somewhere near my temple. “Do you want to get married one day?”

I press my tongue hard into the back of my teeth, feeling the shape of the word marriage like a foreign object. “Never crossed my mind.”

She hums, low and soft, and the sound vibrates through her chest into mine. My hand slides from her back to her hip, thumb pressing into the dip of her waist.

“Do you?” I ask.

She lifts a shoulder, the movement shifting the sheets between us. “Never really pictured it, I guess.”

The silence that follows is thick and warm, filled with the scent of her shampoo and the slow rhythm of our breathing. Moonlight cuts a pale line across her cheekbone. I trace it with my eyes, committing the slope of her nose, the soft part of her lips to memory.

“I’ve been thinking,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can cage them. “And it’s enough.”

“Hm?”

“Even if it was one of them,” I say, voice low, “you’d still have my last name. Wouldn’t change that you’re mine.” My thumb strokes slow circles against her skin. “Been mine since I watched you jump off that pier.”

She shakes her head slowly, a faint smile touching her mouth. “It’s a little early to talk about marriage, Rafe.”

“Baby.” My lips brush her collarbone, then the hollow of her throat. “Agree to disagree.”