A Matter of Heart (Fate, #2)

By being my Connection.

Part of me is ashamed, because he obviously knows he has this effect on me. How couldn’t he? I was just wild-banshee woman and now I’m practically purring like a kitten. What does this say about me? Me, who chose his brother. Me, who is happy with his brother. Me, who dreams of marrying his brother.

Me, who is utterly content to be held in his arms again.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the slightest clue on how to even approach this. We could always go back to the whole pretending bit, but, if I’m honest with myself, I don’t know if I can.

And I definitely don’t know how I can endure another eight months of no talking, no touching, no . . . no anything, let alone another eight minutes.

“It’ll be okay,” he repeats. I know right then that he’s decided to play the role. He isn’t going to let me know he’s affected by my touch, too, even though I can feel his heart pounding like the surf he loves against the shore. No, he’s going to keep everything locked down tight, because he—unlike me—actually puts someone other than himself first.

But, he’s wrong. At least about it being okay. Because now I can truly admit to myself that it won’t be.

I’m not over him. Not by a long shot.





Three days.

To recap, we’ve: not eaten, drank what I estimate to be two full cups of water each, slept fitfully due to the constant screaming outside, and not touched each other again since the hug. On his end, Kellan has lost his ability to communicate with Jonah entirely, although he claims his brother probably can still sense his feelings and hear his thoughts. On my end, I have descended into what I (well, Caleb) can only term sheer despair.

“You should sleep,” Kellan tells me. He should talk. The dark circles under his eyes would make a boxer proud.

I’m lying on the blanket, staring at him. It’s what I do nowadays. I stare at him. I’m too tired to do anything else. “You should.”

He sits down next to me, which spurs me struggling into my own sitting position. Three days, and he’s kept his distance. Well, other than when he hugged me, but I think he’s the smarter of the two of us and decided that once was more than enough. But now . . . now he’s right here by me. Within touching distance, if I was to only stretch out—

“I’m sorry,” he says as quietly as one can when there’s shrieking going on around you. When I scrunch my nose in confusion, he adds, “For calling you a bitch the other day.”

A giggle bubbles out of my chest due to the absurdity of this. And he smiles, too, even if it’s sad. “I deserved it. I called you an asshat.”

“I knew you didn’t mean it.” He grins at my laughter. “Or, at least, you only did in the heat of the moment.”

“Did you?” I ask, and he knows what I mean.

His lips curve even higher. “Only in the heat of the moment.”

“Well, I’m sorry, too. For picking that fight.” And I can’t help it. I really can’t. My breathing goes shallow and the butterflies that have always loved him take flight in my stomach. Even here, even now—he affects me like no one else but his brother can.

“Does it help?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything else. “The distance?”

What I mean is: the distance you’ve put between us?

His eyes leave mine and settle on his cuff, once more in heavy rotation around his wrist. “Sometimes. Not always.” There’s a small breath of a laugh before he looks back up at me. “You?”

Three days with no hope of an exit. I tell him the truth: “The same.”

He nods, his smile more rueful than before. I adore his smiles, all of them—even this bittersweet one. Kellan Whitecomb has some of the best smiles ever created. And maybe it’s because I’m hungry and tired and totally weak, but I find one of my fingers tracing the lips that make those smiles.

My name is soft and hot against my finger, making me shake my head. Because if I let him say anything further, he’s just going to spout off some kind of rationalization why I shouldn’t be touching him. Why he shouldn’t touch me.

I drop my hand so it can join my other to rest against his chest. His heart sprints in time with mine. And then, because . . . because . . .

I have no real reasons other than I want to and think I might die if I don’t.

I press my lips against his.

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