Page 13 of Carver (Satan’s Angels MC #8)

Her face breaks into the brightest smile.

The only reason she doesn’t launch herself at me is because she doesn’t want to do anything to hurt me.

She does set her hand over my foot. Even through the blankets, I can feel the magic of her touch.

The power of it. A shiver zips up my spine and clenches around the base of my neck.

I’m in my boxers under here, and when my cock thickens, getting instantly hard at the thought of Bronte, her hands, her mouth, the warm heat of her, the scent of her skin, the feel of her lips on my body—it’s impossible to hide.

I have to pretend to shift against the headboard like my back hurts.

Bronte unfurls, ready to reach for the pillow beside me, but I wave her off, shoving it behind me and drawing my knees up at the same time.

“I know your family wouldn’t be close.” I need to stop thinking about Bronte’s skin. About putting my lips to the hollow of her throat, about kissing her until she opens for me, of having her lithe form on top of me, legs straddling my waist while she rides me.

Fuck .

“I went to college for four years, I know what it’s like to be away from home.

” She wraps a strand of hair around her fingers but drops it.

She looks me dead in the face. I go from turned on as fuck, to flustered because I swear that she can read my mind.

“I’d miss them, but two hours isn’t an insurmountable distance.

And when I said it was a good idea, I meant for both of us . ”

“We’ve never lived together.” Fuck. Fuck, fuck. That familiar panic veers back at me, taking a sharp turn, throwing me straight back into its wild currents. I’m not afraid of marriage, of commitment, of a lifetime with Bronte.

That would be heaven for a man who has only known hell.

I’m just right back into the midst of all those shit thoughts, the ones that tell me they’re going to fuck me over, fuck Bronte over, and ruin everything. How dare you ever dream? That’s the kind translation.

“No. There’s always been distance.”

She’s been waiting all these years for there not to be. I haven’t forgotten my promises. They ring heavy in the silence. I promised to build her a house. To give her the best life. To love her until the end of time. It was as good as putting a ring on her finger.

The ring I still have hidden away in the back of my toolbox at the shop, behind my favorite set of tools.

I wanted only joy to touch that ring. Not that sculpting has solely been about that, because most days, it’s just me pouring out all that I can’t say, a manic darkness, giving voice to the voiceless and a face to the faceless, but it’s the happiest place I own.

It’s not right that I dare to ask her to restart our life.

I can’t just have her give everything up and move here when it’s still a half formed idea.

I owe her so much more than just what I’ve said.

“I’ve been given so many blessings that I’ve thrown right back into the faces of those who extended them.

You. Your family. I don’t know why the universe keeps giving me more chances. ”

She crosses her legs again, arranging herself like she’s getting ready to meditate.

She’s so perfectly calm that she might as well be.

“I know it’s hard for you to see, but others can.

They can see your brilliance. Your artistry.

Your magnetism. Your sweet, gentle soul.

They can see how unique you are and how special. ”

I flinch, which hurts like hell. “Holy god, Bronte, stop.”

“I’m not going to stop.”

I already know that. She’s never stopped. That’s a constant. It’s her truth. I’ve always known that no matter how complicated life got, Bronte wouldn’t stop . Her not stopping changed me. It made life worth enduring. It made the unbearable become bearable.

I don’t want to be frozen. I don’t want to live encased in a block of ice. I don’t want to be that stone that can’t be sculpted, changed, freed into something beautiful. I don’t want to give Bronte the tools. They’ve been in her hands for too long. I need to do this for myself.

“To me, that’s what I’ve always seen in you.

You’ve always had this love in you. This goodness.

It’s like magic. It hid so it couldn’t be broken, but even when it was caught and there was no mercy, you never got bitter.

You never hated. You never wished for a different life.

You still had all this love welling up inside of you, spilling over, just waiting to be reciprocated. ”

“That’s what most people would say is the definition of pathetic.”

Her nose wrinkles at what other people might say.

She’s never given a single fuck about that.

“I think it’s the definition of grace .” She breaks, her strength deserting her.

She blinks rapidly, looking so tired, but so electric at the same time.

Her eyes search my face, but not like she’s memorizing me.

She already knows me. Every single inch. I belong to her.

Mine. I want her to be mine.

I still can’t comprehend what that would look like, but it’s the one word my soul has always poured out, crying in the darkest night. It was a torment in my bleakest hours, but right now it tolls through my skull like a benediction.

“I- need to tell you something.” Her fingers grasp her knees, her knuckles whitening around the fuzzy pajamas.

Bronte is only goodness. She can’t have done a single wrong thing. It sends alarms ringing through me that she looks like she’s about to make a confession.

“You might not understand why I didn’t say anything before, but I hope that with time we can… just- learn how to build a life together. I want to apologize to you, for doing what I thought was needed, because it’s going to hurt you.”

“No. No, Bronte. You’re- you’re the sun. You’re everything good. I’m the one who’s stone. I’m the complicated one, the one who needs to be saved over and over again. If you thought that telling me wasn’t the right thing to do, then there’s no judgment. You’ve certainly shown me none at all.”

It was like I was dangling from a cliff when she found me, hanging onto the edge. She grabbed my hand and refused to let me fall, until I could figure out a way to help myself up and get back onto ground that wasn’t going to crumble around me.

“Do you have any idea how much I respect you?”

She ducks her head, the tops of her ears turning pink. She sucks in a loud breath before she raises her face, cheeks flushed, freckles standing out stark.

“I know that they say one person can’t save another, but you did.

It was you who saved my life. I have to figure out how that looks.

I need to put it all back together and learn how to live again on my end.

I wouldn’t have anything at all if it wasn’t for your compassion.

Grace? That’s all you.” I need to make her understand.

How do I do that with words? It’s the question I’ve always struggled with.

I know so many languages and I read all the time, but it never seems to translate over to help me voice what I want to say.

What I need to say. “There’s nothing that you could tell me that would make me judge you.

I’ll never be angry with you. Ever. I trust you. ”

“I know.” Her eyes fill with tears. Fat. Horrifying. Glistening. Tears. “I know, and that makes it all so much worse.”

Make it better, those eyes beg. Don’t stop believing we can make this work. Don’t let go. Please, please, don’t let go. Tell me we can be forever.

My nerves tingle, my whole body coming back to life.

She trembles, a shiver rolling through her that I feel magnified like the shifting of tectonic plates in my body. I have no right to them, but I want her secrets. To give them to me means that she trusts me.

I extend my hand, holding it out to her. She scrambles close, falling between my legs when I part them for her so that I can haul her into my arms. I cart her up against my chest. The tension from her body doesn’t vanish, but it does subside, transferring like body heat, slowly into me.

She’s so careful of my face, ducking her head so that her face presses into the good side of my neck. She lets out a shuddering breath that paints my skin.

I was so painfully turned on for her, rock hard, but this isn’t about that. I need to be close to her. Our bodies press closer together with every one of our combined exhales.

I tilt my nose down into Bronte’s hair and inhale.

She smells exactly the same. Straw and clover, vanilla and honey, summer skies, dirt and rain, peonies and strawberries.

When I was trapped under that stone, lying there until I slowly dug my way out, shimmying in the dirt, I felt like I was watching myself from above as I dug my own grave. I understand the out of body experience. Like something is happening to you, but it’s not.

I’ve never been so in my body before. Bronte feels so familiar and so new. For a minute, we cling to each other. There’s no need for words. She clings to me like the world is going to forcefully pry us apart, but there’s no way she’s letting go.

“You can tell me,” I say as I drag my hand over her back, trying to soothe her.

“We’re safe, Bronte. You’re safe. Always.

Always, always, always.” I give her that mantra, reinforcing it.

I forgot it. I might as well be apologizing to her over and over again.

Always, always, always. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Her breathing evens out. She sniffles, and then she lifts her head, her eyes brimming over, and sends a bulldozer straight through the fragile pieces of my life.

“We have a daughter, Dominic. She’s eleven months old. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She looks so much like you.”