Page 14 of Dance of Thorns

Let me introduce you to the concept of doubt.

And that’s when the house of cards collapsed. For now, at least. It’s not like two words cured me, or “fixed me”, or excised the bad, rotten parts.

Because that doubt is what I feared most about the moments that could come after I stepped off the roof. Not the drop itself. Not feeling my stomach lurching into my throat as gravity yanked me down. Not the brutal, messy stop at the end.

It was the idea that I’d step off that ledge, and I’d get thirty whole feet before I’d have second thoughts about what the actual fuck I had just done, followed by eighty-odd stories of free-fall to the street below to wallow in my mistake.

That’s what he did when he said those two words.

Hang.

On.

He gave me doubt, and suddenly Idid notwant to fall. Which is what made it terrifying when we locked eyes, seeing each other for who we were, and I saw that venomous glint of fury in his gaze.

I don't blame him.

Seven years ago, he took something from me: a piece of the only true friend I ever had. A large, heart-shaped piece.

And in return, I took her away from him.

From both of us.

From everyone.

So yes, part of me thought he’d let me fall a moment ago. But then he pulled me back to safety.

I swallow uncomfortably, feeling the heat and power in his hand as it grips mine tightly, one finger laced over the delicate tattooof a ballet slipper on my ring finger and another gently stroking the burn scar on the back of my hand.

His lips curl slightly at the corners with a hint of…well, not a smile. Bane Antonov doesn’t do smiles. But at least he doesn’t look murderous anymore.

For a half second, a flicker of something forbidden and wrong curls inside me. In that instant, I’m not me, he’s nothim, and there is no brutal past between us. He’s just a stunningly gorgeous man—and dark and broody, but, please, as if that isn’t part of the appeal—looming over me on a dark, secluded roof with the city laid out before us, my hand in his.

…For a long moment, all I can focus on is the sharp line of his cheekbones. The razor edge of his jaw. The thick black of his lashes, and the soft yet masculine curve of his lips…

Fucking hell.

I banish those thoughts, torching that dark little corner of my mind to burn away any last remnants of them, because they're toxic.

We stand like that for I don’t even know how long, my last completely cringe comment of “Nice to meet you, Bane. I’m Dove” still hanging in the air.

Finally, he clears his throat as his hand squeezes mine.

“Nice to meet you, Dove.”

And then he smiles.

He fuckingsmiles. And time doesn’t go backward. Up does not become down. Black stays black, instead of turning to white.

What is actually happening right now.

Bane exhales and lets his hand drop. I realize I’ve kept mine where it is a moment longer than normal, and quickly bring it down to my side.

I’m being fucking weird. I’m overanalyzing. That happens if I don’t take my meds. And I didn’t tonight, since I didn’t think taking or not taking them would make much of a difference once my brains were splattered over the sidewalk in front of the 34thstreet Ulta store.

Bane slips a cigarette between his lips.

“I didn’t know you smoked this heavily.”