In spite of the growing knot in my throat, I look up from the floor to stare straight ahead at a deep pink vertical scar. It’s wide and long, extending the full length of his sternum.
My head lowers and my eyes drift askew of their own volition. The sight of his scar makes me sad for him and resentful all at once. Two-year-old questions surface again and I feel like I’m drowning in my emotions. Why does he get to live? Why did Jacob have to die? Why do I have this stupid guilt keeping me from walking away from it all? I know none of this is Zander’s fault. I’ve been fighting so hard to not fall for him. I know that it’s shitty of me to hold a grudge against him for reasons that make zero sense. Maybe I don’t have a grudge at all. Maybe I just hate that I feel guilty for being attracted to him. For wanting him. For needing him. I feel bad that a small part of me is thankful that he’s the man who received my husband’s heart.
Tears stream from my eyes, making me want to hide. I want to hide from everything. Zander’s hand lifts to cup my cheek and he gently lifts my head to face him. The anguish that I saw for a moment has been replaced with a look of sympathy. A look of love.
“I don’t hate you,” I cry. “I’m glad that you’re alive. I guess—I guess that sometimes I’m just not glad that I am.” My admission feels like it’s more for me than it is for him.
He sighs heavily and pulls me to his bare chest with such force that the breath in my lungs rushes out. Our bodies meld together. The anger that I’ve cultivated for so long is gone and I let go. With my cheek pressed to his chest, I sob to the sound of the steady, strong heart that I’ve loved for so long. It’s a heart that I’ll continue to love. Even if it now belongs to Zander. Maybe, specifically now that it belongs to Zander.
“I’m sorry, Zander. I’m so sorry,” I sputter against his chest through heavy sobs.
“Me too, baby,” he whispers, his lips and nose resting against the top of my head. “I need you,” he breathes heavily, his voice filled with emotion.
“Me too,” I admit.
His lips cover mine, leading us in an unrushed, passionate kiss that soothes both of us. It’s been a stressful day for both of us. I try hard to ignore the nerves that have left me tattered and focus on just him. Just us. I ignore the last two years. I ignore what I know I have to do if I have any hopes of moving on with Zander.
He releases me and leads me to the bed, pushing gently on my shoulders until I sit on the edge. He gets down on one knee, lifting one foot then the other to slip off my heels. His lips are soft against the skin at my ankle. He drops kisses where the straps of the heels have rubbed, creating subtle red marks.
“I need you, Sadie,” he repeats low enough that I think he’s talking more to himself than to me. “All of you,” he goes on. Zander gets to his feet and steps between my knees, spreading them wide to accommodate his body. His fingers glide lightly up the back of my neck to lace into my hair. He tugs, gently forcing me to look up at him. “Sadie, please say that I can have all of you. Tell me that you don’t hate me for what he did, for who I am. Tell me that you can accept me the way I am.” His voice is lusty and full of emotion. Being back in Atlanta to face his world and mine has both of us shaken and needing something to cling to. He needs me. This smart, strong, wounded man needs me, and in spite of myself, I’m sure that it’s clear that I need him too. I need him so much it hurts.
I nod my head.
“No. Tell me. Please,” he insists.
“I don’t hate you,” I answer softly. “I swear it. I could never hate you.” More tears edge into my eyes, the source of this emotion a mix. It’s a culmination of events and circumstance two years in the making.
Zander pulls me to my feet and reaches around, unzipping my dress in the back. He grabs hold of the chiffon fabric, gathering it up in his big hands, and pulls it up and over my head. His sapphire eyes are burning bright with lust and just about the full spectrum of emotions.
Once my breasts are freed from the dress and exposed, I feel his fingers hook into my lace panties. He drags them down my legs to join my dress on the floor. His eyes pour over every square inch of my exposed skin, making me feel beautiful instead of insecure. He makes me feel needed. Treasured.
The pad of his thumb brushes over the scar where the bullet ripped through my flesh, seemingly erasing the negativity that’s attached to it. His touch is magic. The light to my dark. The only good in my ocean of bad.