Page 70 of Grim

Rue’s gaze cuts from my eyes to the place on my throat I was just rubbing. Her hand moves to that same spot as she asks, “where did you get this scar?”

A tsunami of memory rushes forth at the gentle coaxing of her soft question.

I swallow back the lump forming and stare icily at her. The second her fingers make contact with my flesh, a searing heat courses through me. I can almost physically feel the armor wrapping itself around me. I grab her hand and remove it from my neck in one swift motion.

“My past is buried, Rue. Don’t go looking for shovels,” I growl low in my throat.

Rue cowers and takes a small step back. The distance feels like a chasm, and I want to erase it while I feel the need to run as far away from her, from this, as I can.

“Sorry, Rue. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Kane.” Her eyes match the pleading tone of her voice.

“You have no idea how wrong you are.” I swallow the space between us, taking the lead in this dance.

“I just want to know you, Grim.”

“No, you don’t, Mayday. I promise.” I take her hand back in mine and place it back on the tender flesh of my neck—an apology without words.

“What happened?” she asks in supplication.

“The unspeakable.” I give language to that heinous act of so long ago for the first time since the deed itself was committed. If only Rue knew what a mountain of shame I have had to climb to offer even that much. I say her name achingly. “Rue.” It’s a shocked breath as her fingertips brush over the line, so gently that I almost don’t feel it.

Almost.But I do. Every nerve in my body goes taut. Her touch burns. Not in pain. In feeling.

She presses her lips to my scar, and something inside me snaps.

Her tender lips on my callous flesh feel like unspoken absolution. Like Rue doesn’t need the details of that sordid, sad story. Like she accepts me regardless of the depth and darkness of my flaws.

I lurch forward. My mouth crashing into hers, wild and claiming. I swallow her gasp as I wrap my arms around her, pulling her flush to my chest.

Her hands fist into my shirt, dragging me closer, deeper.

This kiss isn’t sweet. It’s desperate and vital.

She tastes like rain on scorched earth, and I long for her liquid cool.

She bites my lower lip while pulling us to the ground.

“Fuck,” I groan, one hand trailing down her spine to anchor her against me as she climbs into my lap withouthesitation, legs straddling me, her skirt bunching between us, heat radiating from every inch of her.

Her lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, down the side of my neck—over the scar again. She tongues the marred flesh, gently kissing that one spot. Rue’s impassioned strokes cleanse my shame.

“Rue,” I reluctantly pull her back from my neck—the separation a most acute torture—and look her in the eyes, “I was overcome. I had lost everything. I did an unimaginable—”

She places her finger over my mouth, shushing me. “I don’t need to know, Kane.”

She keeps her eyes locked on mine as she returns to the same spot as before. She sucks on my scarred flesh again, purifying my pain. Rue takes away centuries of guilt and regret with her unconditional forgiveness of my deepest hurt.

“Mayday,” I whisper, broken. How do I tell her to stop and to keep going at the same time?

She grinds herself against me, and I roll my eyes at the feeling as my hand grips her thigh.

“I need you,” she breathes. “Please.”

I should be the one to stop this, but I don’t. I let myself feel everything. The pain, the lust. The ages of hunger and loneliness and restraint—all of it unraveling under her small hands, delicate mouth, and soft body pressed against mine in a cemetery filled with ghosts.

I don’t because, for the first time in many years, I feel again.