The wind picks up and chills my flesh. My hoodie does nothing to warm the cold, emptiness in my bones. In my aching heart. In my fractured soul.
I hug my purse to my side and think about the pregnancy test inside. I’ve been dying to learn the truth about whether or not I’m carrying War’s baby. I need to know one way or another for closure. I’d also like to get ahold of Land. I want my child to have a relationship with their father’s father.
Brandon snakes an arm around me and hugs me to his side. I hadn’t realized I was shivering but his body warms me. Well, on the surface at least. He’d relaxed on the way here and was back to being the friendly, all-around good guy I was used to. It’s going to break his heart when this all blows over and I explain to him that I don’t love him—not like I love War. That we’re better as friends.
The thought of telling him this—after all he’s done for me—nauseates me. But I won’t live a lie. My heart belongs to War, whether dead or alive. I can’t get past him. I will never get past him. And if this baby exists, I’ll pour all of my love for War into it. I’ll spend the rest of my life giving that baby everything it deserves.
“Babe,” Brandon says and kisses my temple. I shudder at his affection, but hopefully he attributes it to me being cold. “We can come back tomorrow. And the day after. And every day after that if it makes you feel better. But I need to get some food in you before you blow away with the wind.”
He tries to make light of the situation and it irritates me. I stiffen in his arms and clench my jaw so I don’t say anything hurtful. Truth is, I’m angry and upset and devastated. My mother is dead, War is dead, and my father is apparently missing. Meanwhile, Brandon is acting like he wants to slip back into old roles and play house.
His hand slips to my throat and he uses his fingers to turn my jaw to face him. The gesture is firm but still gentle. Our eyes meet and I wonder if he can sense the fury emanating from mine. “Hey,” he says softly, and I relax a little. “I didn’t mean to upset you. This is a big clusterfuck and I’m trying to navigate it without a rule book. I’m sorry.”
He lowers his lips to mine, and when I attempt to jerk away from him, his fingers bite just a little into my flesh, holding me still. The desperation in his eyes chases away the light, and for a moment, I gape at his sudden change. His lips are on mine a second later. Needy and overly eager. I wait just a fraction of a moment to see if the old spark returns.
It doesn’t.
It’s just lips and tongue.
Wetness and cinnamon gum.
Nothing about his kiss consumes me—not like War’s did. The only reason he’s been awarded this kiss in the first place is because his grip is strong and I can’t easily break away. When he moans into my mouth, I freeze. I don’t want to kiss him. I want him to give me some space. Sliding my fingers into his hair, I tug until his lips break from mine.
“Brandon,” I murmur, my voice laced with annoyance.
He ignores the sting of me pulling his hair and instead, steals another kiss. His weight topples me over into the cold earth and soon he’s grinding his erection against me. The man kisses me as if he’s starved for me—as if I’m the one person who can fill some of his emptiness.
The entire action reminds me of Gabe and my heart speeds up. My palms find his chest, and I try to push him away but he’s so strong. When he grinds painfully against me again, I lose it and manage to jerk my mouth from his, turning my head sharply to the right. His mouth moves on to my neck and earlobe, hot breath tickling my flesh.
“God, how I’ve missed you, babe. Missed us. This.” He emphasizes his point by nibbling on the skin.
I see red about the same time I see a stick. It isn’t thick but it’ll do. With quick, forceful whaps I whip him on the back of the head until he rolls off and away from me. Scrambling to my knees, I point the stick at him accusingly.
“What is wrong with you, Brandon?” I demand and toss the stick into the grass. “My mind is a mess and this certainly isn’t helping.”
He has the sense to look ashamed. His darkened eyes return to the sparkly green I know and trust. Crimson heats the top of his cheeks as he runs his fingers through his messy hair. “Jesus, Baylee. I’m so sorry. I just missed you and—”
“Thought you could make out with me on my mother’s grave?” I finish for him, my voice venom-filled as I stand up. My words wound him and I’m glad. I know he’s been through a lot, but so have I.
He looks up toward the sky with a groan and then pins me with an icy glare before stalking off toward the truck. “And you don’t have to worry,” he calls out over his shoulder, “that’ll be the last time I try and comfort you again. But my feelings for you—my craving to touch you—can’t just be flipped off with the push of a button, unlike you.”
Guilt washes over me as he leaves me. Maybe I was too harsh. This has to be difficult for him too. When I left, we were hot and heavy for one another. We had plans. A future all mapped out.
But then I was sent to War.