It had not been easy growing up in such an unforgiving way.
But one set of the sniffles and a slightly elevated temperature? The whole house of demanding cards went into a free fall.
Total pampering.
Sometimes, usually after grades came out and Rio got a shellacking and a half for the two Bs she always got (math and Spanish), she would deliberately go out and get a chill or head over to a friend’s house if they’d missed some school in the previous week because of a flu.
She had needed the reassurance, the comfort, even if it had been unconnected to the offense of her not being perfect.
“Are you okay?” Luke asked.
So quiet. Just her breathing and the soft crackle of the incense getting started.
“I didn’t see my life,” she whispered. “When I knew he was going to kill me. I thought . . . I was supposed to see my life, you know?”
Luke stood over her, looming and silent. Then he said, “That’s because you’re a survivor. Survivors like us, we stay in the present.”
“Everyone says you see your life. Right before you die.”
“And how many dead people you talk to lately?”
Rio blinked. And then smiled. “Good point. And I guess I wasn’t dying. Maybe that’s when it happens.”
Luke winced. Then looked away. Looked back. “Move over a little.”
She stared up at him in confusion. “What?”
“You need someone right now. I’m not much, but I don’t see that you have any other options.”
Actually . . . he was wrong. He was more than enough—and that made her nervous. “Okay,” she said.
Rio groaned as she pushed her body over, and then the mattress, such as it was, tilted to one side—and Luke had stretched out next to her.
Before she could form a coherent thought, she cleaved to his big, warm body, curling against him. With a quick shift, he settled her head on his arm.
“I can hear your heart beat,” she murmured.
“So I have one. Good to know.”
“Where do you get your cologne?”
“Cologne? I don’t wear any.”
Guess it was fabric softener, she thought as she wondered where he did his laundry.
Her eyes drifted around the room, casing the empty beds, the boxes and supplies, the draping around the other patient. From time to time, there were clunks deep in the inside of the building, the low percussive noises like the settling of cold in metal supports or air going through old pipes.
“I really am thankful you came when you did,” she whispered. “I wasn’t going to make it without you.”
There was a period of silence, and then the rumble of Luke’s voice reverberated up out of his rib cage and into her ear. Into her mind. Into her . . . soul.
“He deserved what he got,” he growled.
Rio propped her head up on Luke’s pec. His chin was so near and his lips were so . . . full. Above his cheeks, his eyes were closed, and his lashes were long and thick. He looked remarkably at peace considering how aggressive his voice was.
“Do you shave twelve times a day?” she murmured.
Those lips twitched in one corner. “Mind if I ask where that came from?”
Bringing her arm up, she touched his jaw with her forefinger, brushing it softly. “So smooth. I’ve never met a man with dark hair who didn’t have a five o’clock.”
“How many men have you met and gotten close enough to, to see their beard?”
“Five o’clock shadows are not state secrets.”
“Sorry, did that come out bad?”
“Depends on your definition of bad. You sounded jealous.”
There was another pause. And then those lashes lifted, revealing glowing golden eyes that were so brilliant and hot, they were like the sun itself.
He focused on her. “Maybe I am.”
Lucan had spent a lot of years not giving a shit about anything or anybody, including himself. Being in prison for your mere existence kind of turned you into a dissociative sonofabitch—assuming it didn’t make you a confirmed misanthrope.
Mis-lycan-thrope, in his case.
So it was kind of . . . surprising, in a fuck-me sort of way . . . that he found himself wanting to reassure this human woman.
And do other things to her.
“Is that a problem,” he asked. Even though he knew he wasn’t telling her the full truth about himself. Any truth, really.
But he was sure she had secrets of her own, and that was the nature of the drug trade. You took people at face value and protected yourself. It was a rule so fundamental, it didn’t have to be spoken.
Survivors, both of them. And as he’d said, that meant you stayed in the present. On every level.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not a problem.”
Lucan closed his eyes because he didn’t want her to see into him and find out how aroused he was. Where his thoughts had gone. Where his hands wanted to go.
She moved up higher on his torso. “You want me to prove it?”
“Prove what?”
He lifted his lids again. She was so close now, he could see the flecks in her brown eyes.
“That it’s okay if you’re jealous?” she murmured.
“Does it involve my mouth?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“The way you’re staring at my lips right now.” He reached up and brushed her damp hair back. “So do you want to do something about this? Or ignore it. It’s your choice.”
“If I understand what you’re talking about, it’s a two-sided thing. You also get to choose.”
His eyes locked on her mouth. “Oh, I’ve already made my decision.”
There was a pause. Then Rio moved up a little higher on his chest. As she lowered her head to kiss him, she closed her eyes, and he liked that. It was as if she wanted to concentrate everything she had on the contact.
Lucan did the same, his lids shutting.
He expected her to be bold. She wasn’t—but she wasn’t timid, either. Her mouth brushed over his, and he relished the sensation, the velvet, the warmth. Except he was a greedy asshole. They might be only kissing, but in his mind, they were naked and he was mounting her, finding his way in between her thighs until—
The sound was far off, a banging noise. A door slamming? Then there were footfalls coming fast.